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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665672">We’ll Be a Fine Line</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuisanceforchoas/pseuds/nuisanceforchoas'>nuisanceforchoas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1970s, American Gay Rights Movement, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Angst, Slow Burn, Slurs, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:15:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>60,160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665672</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuisanceforchoas/pseuds/nuisanceforchoas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Southside Chicago in 1978 and it’s the climax of the American Gay Rights Movement. Mickey works in a record shop to pass time, maybe stay out of trouble. But Ian Gallagher is nothing if not trouble as far as Mickey's concerned.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher &amp; The Gallaghers, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich &amp; The Milkoviches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey loses someone.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this might be confusing obviously because it's a flash forward excerpt from the story but bear with me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Mickey was five years old, he had been gifted an action figurine that he would sleep with every night. He found himself giving the action figure a bath to keep him clean and he would tuck him under his pillow every night, guarding and caring for the fictional object that carried all of his affection. Mickey was sure that it was a knock-off of the real thing but that didn't matter much to him because it was his and he loved it as much as a kid could love a toy. He remembers that Iggy had given it to him for his birthday and that was pretty much the only thing he got that day.</p><p>One day, Mickey came home from school and found that Terry had thrown it in the trash because it was sitting on the coffee table and Mickey needed to learn responsibility, keeping his toys in his room. Mickey searched every dumpster on their block and forced Iggy to call the garbage service to see if it had turned up but it was nowhere to be found. Just like that, the best thing he had was gone—no longer in his arms at night.</p><p>Mickey had never felt that kind of terror or sadness again until today. </p><p>
  <strong>November 1978; Southside, Chicago</strong>
</p><p>His feet pound on the pavement so hard that he can hear the echo in his ears like a drum beat guiding him along the street. He uses his arms to weave his entire body in and out between pedestrians who shout and yell at him to slow down but he can't because this is happening and this is real. At first, he sat in shock, terrified to move but after several moments of listening to that goddamn clock tick, he couldn't take it anymore and he had to get out, he had to go. That's when it all hit, when it all sunk that nothing about this moment was fake.</p><p>Something was once again ripped from him and he couldn't stand there and wait anymore. He had to go, he needed to tell someone. He needed him to be okay. He couldn't just be gone like that, he was supposed to be Mickey's hope for a better future, a better life. Something big inside of Mickey wishes that he could go back to the time when everything was fine, just a few hours ago. </p><p>Mickey had placed so much stock into other people to complete his happiness and that's where he had fucked up. His legs feel tired but he can see the street sign for North Wallace and it's blurry, but he would know it anywhere. He had spent a lot of time on the curbside outside this house in the rain, screaming, fighting, longing to step forward into the light that was Ian Gallagher's life and out of the darkness of his own but his feet rarely ever moved. He stayed stagnant, waiting, hoping like a fool for something good to come to him and when it finally did, he had lost it—possibly forever. </p><p>"Fuck." He curses, running down the block.</p><p>His fingers brush the fence lining as he skids to a halt outside the home. It's dead silent and he can hear his breathing grow ragged, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. The adrenaline from the run has fucked him up so much that he can almost see Ian standing in front of him, smiling and waving but as soon as he blinks, he's gone, replaced with the open space of the porch and not much else. There's a plastic cup full of cigarette butts at his feet and beer cans litter the yard. Strangely enough, this grounds him to the moment, making it all more real because he feels like he could slip away if the wind picked up just a little more. </p><p>He's not sure how he can feel so light but so heavy at once but Ian Gallagher has always made his feel like that.</p><p>Mickey picks himself up from the puddle of green eyes and red hair he's sculpted in his imagination and he hauls his weak limbs up to the door. His knuckles rap on the door, tears brimming in his eyes as he pulls the jacket around himself. He prays that he’s here and everything is a fucked up dream his mind made up.</p><p>Lip opens the door, purple sleep stains rimming the skin under his eyes. His mouth is set in a tight line and he has nothing on but a long shirt and boxers. Mickey feels physical pain soar through him as he sniffles. </p><p>"Mickey, what the fuck?" Lip rubs his face, his blue eyes closing for a minute before climbing out of the coma he almost fell through in that small second with his eyes shut tight. </p><p>"He's gone." Mickey pants, feeling like he could climb the walls any second. </p><p>Lip's mouth hangs open for just a fraction before he shuts it again. "Who's gone Mickey?"</p><p>Mickey can still see the body in his head as he leans away from the older Gallagher, taking the words in his throat with him. He can see the white sheet hanging over his face, shielding him from Mickey's view. Mickey can hear the deafening gunshots echoing in his ears and the police officers at the scene no longer feel like figments of his imagination as he's said the words out loud. </p><p>"He's dead." Mickey whispers to himself, stepping away from the open door in shock as his stomach sinks to his feet like a rock and every cell in his body stings like they've all been electrocuted into overdrive. Everything is telling him to run, keep running until nothing hurts anymore but he stays planted as Lip reaches forward and grabs his shoulders to rock him roughly back and forth. </p><p>"Mickey, who the fuck is gone?" He growls, gripping the hair on the back of Mickey's neck to bring him back but nothing can bring him back. Mickey feels like he's already gone. </p><p>If this could happen to <em>him</em>, then anything could happen to Mickey. He feels unsafe, exposed, broken, naked out in the open like this—without him alive. He was the one chance Mickey thought he had at being something more than small and scared. </p><p>"You're freaking me out, Mickey. Start talking now." Lip demands in a shaky voice because he's never seen Mickey like this and to be honest, he never thought he would. The Mickey Milkovich he knew was strong and closed off but the Mickey that stands in front of him now is like a leaking, open wound waiting defenseless and it's haunting for a lack of a better word. </p><p>Mickey can't seem to open his mouth as his knees crumble and he falls onto the porch, gasping for some kind of air— some kind of release. His hands smack the wooden flooring and he claws, trying to catch his breath when he feels a set of arms wrap around him but they're stronger than Lip's.</p><p>They're freckly and the hair on them is red. He looks up, quickly locking green eyes with his terrified, wet baby blues. Ian's cheeks are red from the fall weather and he's still in his pajamas as he adjusts Mickey in his arms, running his hands through the smaller man's hair to calm him down.</p><p>"He's gone." Mickey repeats, twisting in Ian's arms until their chests are flush together and his face is in the younger man's neck. And Ian knows exactly who he’s talking about without needing any extra explanation. It breaks him but he tilts his chin up, balancing it on top of Mickey’s head to appear stronger in the moment.</p><p>"I know." Ian soothes, brushing his hands up and down Mickey's back, stopping every so often to pat him comfortingly. "It's gonna be fine." Ian shivers when Mickey's tears hit his neck, streaking down the skin as Mickey shutters a breath, feeling weaker than he's ever felt. </p><p>"Nothing will ever be fine again." His lips brush Ian's neck as he silently cries, tightening his hold around Ian's shoulders. </p><p>Ian doesn't speak to that or give any remotely helpful response because if he's honest, he wouldn't believe anything he said right now either. He doesn't know if anything will ever be okay for them again so he just holds Mickey, trying to will some kind of strength into them both for the small, weak boy in his arms who had never looked smaller. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When Milkovich met Gallagher.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The year is 1978. It's the height of the American Gay Rights Movement and Mickey works in a record shop to pass time and stay out of trouble. Ian Gallagher is nothing but trouble as far as Mickey's concerned. But for now, Ian's only errand for the day is to buy the new David Bowie album for his brother's birthday but it's not in stock. So, he sits and talks to Mickey who isn't exactly a people person.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>8 months before...</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>March 16th, 1978; Chicago, Illinois </strong>
</p><p>He was beyond the point of going back to sleep now. The powerful rays of the sun had already bled into Mickey's eyes, forcing him into the half stage of catatonic and wide awake. The sidewalk was a shade darker than usual, making it clear that it had rained the night before and if that didn't put a damper on Mickey's mood, the <em>Closed for Business</em> sign in the door of the only diner around sure did. He didn't have any kind of attachment to the establishment, just the buttery pastries and breakfast food they served at the semi-purposeful ass crack of dawn each day. </p><p>"You gotta be shittin' me." Mickey grumbled, forcing his hands out of the pockets of his jeans as he shuffled towards the fogged window. His hands cupped his eyes as he pressed against the cool glass, still dewy and wet from rain. </p><p>It's dark inside and the chairs are stacked on the table like the place hadn't been touched since closing. It looks like the start of his morning would have to go without a stack of pancakes and coffee. His knuckles knock on the glass tiredly before he leans his forehead on it and pushes himself off to start back down the sidewalk. He'd be a little earlier to work since he had left the house a whole half hour sooner for breakfast. His stomach didn't growl— no, that would be because he had consumed an entire bag of chips around two in the morning and it was just after seven so they barely even had time to settle before his alarm clock reeked havoc on his soul.</p><p>The rest of the walk went without error. Mickey's hands shook at his sides from the cold wind slicing through the air and it did nothing for his already fallible mood. The sight of the record shop seemed to send warmth through his system at the thought of powering on the personal heater Ray kept behind the front desk. </p><p>Ray was a tall, slender black man who towered over Mickey by at least half a foot. He wasn't so much intimidating but he could put the fear of God into some shoplifters if he needed to. <em>Records are sacred forms of art, </em>he used to tell Mickey. He'd say, <em>guard them with your life. </em>Yeah, Mickey was not chasing a kid down the block for some plate of plastic. No fucking way. His methods for shoplifting were simpler. He'd just use the bat he kept above the desk, tucked right on top of the cassette sell-backs. </p><p>Mickey got closer to the front of the store and peered up at the faded <em>Ray's Record Reserve </em>sign— <em>Jesus, Ray needed to get that shit repainted</em>. He noticed a tall guy, lanky wearing a thin hoodie pulled up over his head. The hoodie was doing nothing to keep the guy warm considering Mickey could see him visibly shiver from twenty feet away. The guy was hunched into himself on the brick wall, looking down at a newspaper he had folded in half so that he could hold it better, keeping one hand in his pocket for a semblance of warmth. Mickey looked down at the watch on his wrist that Ray had gotten him for Christmas a few months ago. He wanted to make sure it was actually as early as he thought because the whole walk here had been like trudging through a dead zone. There was no one else in sight except for this scraggly kid perched outside the store. </p><p>"Ey!" Mickey shouts, startling the kid out of his intense reading. The kid doesn't look up at the noise but his body language is guarded like he knows Mickey is close by. "Store don't open until eight." He mumbles unperturbed by the stranger.</p><p>He reaches down into his back pocket to retrieve his set of keys that Ray had trusted him with. He fumbles, looking down to find the right one. When he looks back up, he's met with bright green eyes that turn almost yellow when the golden hour of the sun hits them. The guy pulls his hood down and and Mickey is faced with fiery red hair curled and looking damp almost, like the guy had been sleeping outside last night in the rain. The thought makes Mickey's stomach turn so he ignores it and distracts himself with the lock.</p><p>He chances a look in his peripheral and notices the guy has gone back to his reading. He’s wearing light wash jeans and converse that seem to have holes in the sides. The wind picks up right as Mickey turns to him, the earthy smell almost knocking him back a half step in his dazed state. The kid smells like fresh cut grass mixed with generic soap and it shouldn't make the skin on Mickey's neck tingle like it does. </p><p>"You want to come inside? I ain't gonna make you wait in the cold, man." Mickey offers and when the man looks up, he offers him a tight lipped smile. It's friendly enough and somewhat eases Mickey's nerves of being in his presence.</p><p>The stranger rolls up the newspaper and slips it into the wilting pocket of his hoodie before following Mickey inside. He leaves a small bit of distance which Mickey is thankful for but his overall presence is looming and strong no matter what.  </p><p>The hardwood floors are mangled with scuff marks and the white shelves that hold the records are dirty as well. On a regular day, Mickey would wipe them down or dust the shelves but with the stranger here, Mickey almost feels nervous to do anything except sit behind his desk and pretend to price mark the new stock of vinyls. So, that's what he does. He sheds himself of his jacket, immediately regretting it and shrugging it back over his small shoulders. He cuts the small heater on behind the desk and almost cries when warm relief hits his icy skin. He brings his hands up to his mouth and blows harshly, trying to speed up the process. The stranger is bent over behind the back shelf, squinting intently as he fingers the records quickly. He huffs and stands, balancing his hands on his hips as he looks around for something. Mickey quickly averts his eyes, taking a pen off the desk and writing different shapes on an old receipt before sticking the pen behind his ear. </p><p>He looks behind him and spots the rickety stool. He slides it closer and hops onto it, bouncing his leg up and down nervously as he waits for the stranger to complete his search. Mickey finds himself wondering if he'll be relived or sad when the man leaves. And in that moment, Mickey would've punched himself if he could. For a while, he had found a way to control his thoughts and he figured he was doing better. The program he attended when he was younger did a great job of knocking some sense into him. His father’s priest said it would work wonders. But now he felt himself start to relapse. He felt disappointment surge through him at the thought of his mood depending on this stranger— a man. The silence is too much between the only two in the store and if Mickey has to listen to this man hum in defeat again, he was going to break the pen in half and shove it into his ear canals. Mickey turns to the small radio, turning it on only to be met with deafening static. It makes him jump off his stool to turn it off and when he does, he can see the stranger staring out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't look in his direction but rather focuses on finding a channel to drown out the ear pinching silence.</p><p>He lands on a news channel, figuring that since the guy was reading the paper, he might like the news. Mickey's not sure why he cares, but he doesn't question it further as he goes back to price marking new merchandise for Ray. He recognizes a couple of the albums and smiles as he reads the back of them to pass time. </p><p>A knock on the desk draws him out of his work and he's met with the same stranger drinking him in, up and down before settling on Mickey’s face that’s probably blotched with blush from their sudden close proximity. The stranger’s hair is curled up on his forehead and no longer damp. His thinly worn hoodie is unzipped, leaving him in a waning black shirt that is so washed out from bleach that it looks gray. There's a band name on it but before Mickey can make it out, the man coughs and draw's Mickey's attention to his face. It's a good face. His jaw is strong and his cheekbones are sharp, pristine. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at Mickey in disappointment. </p><p>"Do you guys have the 'Heroes' album in yet?" He asks, setting his shoulders back. His voice is deep and brassy, like he's still groggy from sleep. </p><p>It takes Mickey a second to respond back because he's so thunderstruck by the noise. "David Bowie?" He asks just to make sure and not at all because he wants this conversation to continue on as long as possible. </p><p>"That's the one." He nods, looking heavenward at the sign across the front of his desk. "Says here you guys get new releases within the month they're out." He reaches up above the desk and taps the sign in reference, making Mickey jealous because he's always needed the stool when he had to get up there. </p><p>Mickey thumbs his bottom lip as he points toward the whole shelf in the back that they have dedicated to David Bowie. The man was an icon and Ray appreciated his music. "It wasn't out there?" </p><p>The stranger shakes his head solemnly, glancing between Mickey's outstretched finger and his face. Suddenly Mickey feels self-conscious about the choice of tattoos on his knuckles and tucks his hands in his lap out of pure insecurity. It’s a stupid fucking feeling, Mickey decides— to feel insecure, especially from a stranger who you've just met. The man didn't look to be judging him but Mickey had already decided that he was and that fueled something inside of him. Maybe it was better to feel annoyed at the man instead of this frilly warm shit he was feeling.</p><p>"Then we don't have it." Mickey huffs, looking down and away from the man.</p><p>”Damn, I was looking forward to getting it. Do you think you’ll have it in soon?” The man presses, swaying back and forth. The action makes Mickey’s head spin a little as he struggles to answer. </p><p>”We have a shipment coming in about three days. Who knows, maybe.” Mickey juts his thumb out to wipe his nose distractedly. </p><p>After a few beats the man doesn't move so Mickey looks back up to see the stranger smiling widely back at him which confuses him. The man had been guarded, silent this whole time and now he's looking at Mickey like he's an old friend.</p><p>"What?" Mickey bites before remembering that this is a customer and Ray would dock his pay for being rude. </p><p>"You're that Milkovich kid, right?" He leans on the counter, moving a little closer to Mickey and just like that the annoyed feeling he forced himself to endure was gone.</p><p>Mickey, in his teen years, was known for being somewhat of a prickly, sarcastic asshole so the fact that this man already knows of him and who he used to be sends Mickey into a brief spiral. His reputation in the small, Chicago neighborhood had been no secret. His family— if that's what you could call it— were well known for being in and out of lockup. There were small sabbaticals where they were all home but like clock work, a job or a run would go bad and somebody was back in the metal motel. Mickey hadn't seen his entire family in one room since he was sixteen. </p><p>"Not a kid anymore." Mickey gripes back, already hating this conversation.</p><p>He had worked hard to get out from under his family's thumb and now he was back to being reduced to that family of criminals and deviants he escaped from. To be fair, he hadn't really gotten far. Just a few blocks over living in a shitty two bedroom apartment. It was good enough for him though. </p><p>"My bad." The stranger holds his hands up in mock surrender, shooting Mickey a wry smile.</p><p>Something stirs inside of Mickey at the gesture but he doesn't let himself feed into it. "Seems unfair you know me and I don't know you."</p><p>Alright, maybe he’s letting himself feed into it a little. </p><p>The man gives him a dopey smile before smoothing his shirt out in an overdramatic fashion. "Ian Gallagher." </p><p>The name sounds familiar enough. You don’t meet a lot of Gallagher’s unless they’re related around here. He specifically knew of Fiona Gallagher because when he was around 14 or 15, the years blurred together, she had come up to the Milkovich home one day raising hell about Mandy stealing her younger sister’s bike. She put the fear of God himself in Mandy, threatening her with brute force and a claw hammer. Suffice it to say she got the bike back and a few licks in with the hammer on their front door.</p><p>Mickey starts to picture the Ian Gallagher that he remembers from the block. It’s not much considering he stayed on his side of the neighborhood and rarely crossed paths with the kid. He recalls a gangling, freckled redhead missing his two front teeth from a scrimmage football game mixed with some concrete gone wrong. He remembers how Ian who used to wait at the school gates for the bus with his book bag strapped on tight. His hair was also longer then, more unruly.</p><p>The Ian Gallagher he sees before him now is broad, towering over six feet and muscular in a way that makes Mickey curious just how toned he is under all that fabric. Mickey bites his tongue until he tastes blood, immediately feeling the need to punish himself for the mere thought. </p><p>"Gallagher, huh?" He speaks before the silence prolongs and gets weird. Ian nods happily like he's proud of the name he's been given since birth. Mickey is envious of that much. "Your family is that litter over on North Wallace?" Mickey snarks rhetorically but Ian doesn't seem to mind as his smile doesn't fade. <em>As it shouldn't, </em>Mickey thinks, digging his fingernails into the perked skin of his wrists to shut his mind up. </p><p>"That's us. You might know my older brother, Lip. I think you guys are around the same age." Ian grins at the mention of his brother who Mickey did have the pleasure of knowing in the form of an acquaintance.</p><p>He and Lip Gallagher used to smoke together behind the bleachers at school along with a bunch of other Southside deadbeats. Although, from what he had heard about Lip, he was no longer a deadbeat. No, he was now in fact a Northside prick who had moved to California and graduated from Stanford University. He majored in something law oriented of all things which was rich coming from a Southsider. He now represented other pricks and political figures in court. Mickey found himself wishing that he had had somebody like Lip to bail him out of run-ins with the law when he was younger instead of always getting saddled with overworked public defenders.</p><p>"How is Lipschwitz?" Mickey asks, tacking on an old nickname he used to utilize back in the day. It gives him a strange sense of nostalgia but he brushes it off. </p><p>"He's great. His birthday is coming up soon so I wanted to find him the new David Bowie album. He's been talking about it for months now." Ian rambles, running a hand through his outgrown hair. The redhead looks stressed and distraught. Something else about Ian feels off but Mickey doesn’t press it.</p><p>Instead, he keeps it light. </p><p>"That task couldn't wait until, I don't know, noon?" Mickey asks, not feeling any real heat behind his own works even though he was slightly annoyed to find Ian lurking around outside at an ungodly hour. </p><p>Ian grins, biting down on his bottom lip as he shrugs. "I like the sun."</p><p>"Sun'll still be out at noon." Mickey retorts and Ian huffs exhaustively like the point he’s trying desperately to make is missing Mickey. </p><p>"I like the <em>morning</em> sun." Ian says elusively and though he doesn't fully believe his reason, Mickey drops it, letting the conversation fall slowly between them.</p><p>The men on the radio talked idly in the background and Ian's ears perk up like he had heard a police siren. He asks Mickey to adjust the volume— like Mickey would ever say no to him. When he turns the radio up, Mickey hears the name <em>Harvey Milk</em> uttered through the speakers. Mickey knew about Harvey Milk. The whole neighborhood had been talking about him and some had opinions ranging from good and bad. Mickey tried to avoid the whole thing altogether if he could but right here, standing with Ian, there's no way he could. The voice of Harvey Milk along with newscasters bled through the shop and into the ears of Ian and Mickey who stood stagnant, listening. </p><p><em>“As political parades go, it was a little unusual .Harvey Milk on his way to city hall this morning as a supervisor in San Francisco. By his side, his gay lover. There was a celebration on the steps of City Hall when he arrived.”</em> A deep voiced newscaster announces. </p><p>Mickey stares down at the counter, hearing his breathing falter at the words spoken. It’s clearly a rerun of the day that had first happened months ago. Harvey Milk made history and became the first openly gay elected official in California.</p><p>Mickey doesn't dare look up from the interesting spec of dust near his persistent and trembling fingers. He notices Ian's weight shifting from foot to foot as he continues to listen to the radio— Harvey's achievements being replayed again and again.  </p><p>"I still can't believe he's bringing a new sense of <em>hope </em>to these people and we're alive to see it." Ian says incredulously in shock and awe.</p><p>The word 'hope' means so little to Mickey that it almost seems like a made up word— nonexistent or only kept alive in dreamer's minds to fulfill some perfectionist agenda that a future was ahead. Mickey was far from a dreamer and he wasn't about to start down that road now.</p><p>His right hand jerked away from its position on the counter and pulled the cord straight from the wall, throwing it to down like it had burned his palm. The radio stayed upright but he cord knocked against the cabinet like a metronome, driving Mickey further into insanity. The whole thing was quick and it made Ian jump but Mickey didn't care. His ears were ringing from the spiel on the radio and he could feel his heartbeat vibrating through his skin. It was like everything he tried so hard to bury was fluttering back up in his stomach and it seemed like the only way out was in the form of acidic bile. He couldn't do this, not here, not now, not ever again. He swallows harshly, feeling the burn in his throat coupled with sting of tears fogging his eyes. </p><p><em>They are strong people, </em>he remembers hearing Harvey say on the radio a while back. Mickey was not strong. He was far from the word itself and his father had made sure of that all those years ago. Now, he was weak and his body felt like a casing— empty and freezing cold.</p><p>Shockingly warm skin brushes Mickey's wrist evenly and from the pale freckles dotted around the hand, Mickey knows it's Ian. Who else would it be? It’s just them in the vacant store. He doesn't bother looking up because he knows how he must look. He must looked wrecked, disheveled. But that's nothing to how he feels— ashamed. Ashamed that he can't even listen to a speech written by a gay man without falling apart and even more ashamed that he enjoys the ginger touch of Ian's skin stacked on top of his. He regrettably pulls his hand away from Ian's, shortly missing the contact before he's back in his own head and berating himself for even enjoying it in the first place. </p><p>It's clear to Ian that Mickey is done talking so he takes a few steps backward towards the door and leaves without another word spoken.</p><p>The spot he was standing in still smells like trees and soap and Mickey allows himself a small moment to relish in it before he steps back and grabs the can of air freshener Ray keeps behind the counter for stoners who wander through, stinking up the small and enclosed shop. Mickey takes a deep breath and sprays all around him, extending his arm firmly with his finger on the nozzle until he's sure Ian's scent is gone for good. </p><p><em>Good, </em>he decided. That's what Ian is. Mickey learned long ago that he didn't deserve things that could be described as good anyway. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey goes to work on his day off and finds that he doesn't hate it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Molly, Mickey's half-sister from s3, is in here. I want to say she's like 18 years old given the time frame that I've made Mickey's age (23). The Shameless timeline makes no sense to me therefore it does not exist here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>March 19th, 1978; Chicago, Illinois</strong>
</p><p>The floor of his apartment wasn't necessarily the most uncomfortable place to sleep although that hadn't necessarily been Mickey's plan for the night. Leave it to his air mattress to give out on one of the coldest nights of the year, leaving him shivering and uncomfortable with his back pressed against the thinly planted carpet. Mickey let the muscles in his shoulders flex slightly as he winced and rolled over onto his stomach. After standing and surveying the damage, it was clear that something besides gravity had fucked with his sleep. The corner of his air mattress had puncture wounds in it from claws and it didn't take a genius to figure out exactly what had happened.</p><p>"Molly!" Mickey grabs the deflated mattress and stomps slowly out of his room, only to be met with the wide eyes of his teen sister eating cereal out of a plastic bowl and her unabashed cat sitting on the counter purring. Mickey glares at the cat hotly, holding up the mattress. </p><p>Molly sees the air mattress in his hands and lets the cereal fall out of her mouth and into the bowl.</p><p>"Mickey, I am so-"</p><p>"Pussy sleeps outside from now on." He says, throwing the destroyed mattress down and heading straight for the fridge. He produces a half empty gallon of milk and smells it to make sure it's still good. It's past its expiration date according to the print but it smells alright. </p><p>"Mickey, no! It's freezing." Molly whines, cuddling the black cat like a baby as it hisses and rejects her touch. To be fair, the cat was picked up from a local shelter and the worker had advised Molly to find a different one because it was feral and most of the time it hated to be touched or handled. Molly lets it fight against her as she readjusts the hold and lets the cat jump down only to plop onto the pallet of towels Mickey had made for it a while ago. He hated the thing but Molly had insisted that it needed someplace to sleep. </p><p>"Salem here busted my mattress." Mickey argues, swinging the jug of milk in his hand towards the cat. </p><p>"Her name is not Salem." Molly pouts, going back to her cereal. </p><p>"She doesn't have a name so what the fuck else am I supposed to call her?" Mickey pours some milk into a cup before reaching for the coffee only to find out it's cold. Chancing it, he puts it into his mug anyway. </p><p>"I don't want to domesticate her. Giving her a name strips her of her freedom." Molly shrugs and speaks through a mouthful of food as she watches the cat with loving eyes. Mickey refrains from rolling his own eyes as he runs a hand through his tangled hair.</p><p>"If she's going to live here, you gotta do something. You gotta train her, get her into a routine— Jesus, do something, Molly, or she goes back to the shelter." Mickey threatens emptily. He knows that he would never take that cat away from Molly. When Molly had first moved in with Mickey, it took her a long time to adjust. She rarely leaves the apartment due to unresolved trauma, so Mickey recommended that they get her a companion. The cat was her choice and Mickey would never take away her choice. He could still be angry with the son of the bitch.</p><p>"I'll make sure she stays out of your room." Molly promises with wide, excited eyes. </p><p>"The fuck was she doing in there anyway?" Mickey gripes, taking a sip of his cold coffee and nearly gagging. Most of the time as long as the caffeine is in his system, he'll take what he can get but this cold motor oil is just going to drag through his bloodstream the whole day. </p><p>"I thought she was going to wake you up." </p><p>"She fucking woke me up all right." Mickey grumbles, dumping his mug in the sink. "Look, I have to go get a real bed and some hot coffee. Are you gonna be alright here while I go?" He eyes the cat again who has her eyes closed as she lays down on the bed of towels in the corner. </p><p>"You're getting a real bed?" It's not so much a weird question but it is a shock. For as long as Mickey's been alive, he's always either had a twin-size bed that he shared with siblings or no bed at all. The air mattress was only supposed to last a few weeks at first and it eventually turned into a three-year stint that Mickey had learned to cherish. </p><p>"Suppose it's time." Mickey sighs, eyeing the wad of plastic bedding sitting on his kitchen floor. </p><p>"I'll be good here." Molly decides, causing Mickey to nod. It's not like he doesn't want to drag her out of the apartment but if she doesn't want to go, that's another choice she gets to make. Though he makes it clear that if anyone put their hands on her, he would kill them, Molly always seem to decline his offer to go out. Ray always tells Mickey that it's not his fault— what happened to her— and Mickey does his best to believe it. </p><p>Mickey drags himself back to his room only to see his dresser and a vacant spot on his carpet where the bed once was. The part where the bed used to be is a lighter shade of beige than the rest of the room and it makes him wonder if he needs new carpet too. A new mattress will be there before the end of the day, so he decides it's not that important. Mickey puts on some black jeans and an old green flannel he stole from one of his brothers, looking around for his boots but not seeing them anywhere. </p><p>"Molly, you seen my boots?" He yells out, kicking two different piles of clothes but still not seeing them. </p><p>It's dead silent in the apartment and Mickey knows for a fact that Molly didn't leave so he walks out into the living room to Molly shielding the cat with her arms. She glances back at his presence with scared eyes. When Mickey walks further into the scene, he sees the toe of his boot in the cat's mouth.</p><p>"Molly, what the fuck?" He runs a hand down his face, and she throws the pair of boots at his feet, still shielding the cat from his wrath. </p><p>"She didn't mean it!" She's quick to defend the menacing cat. </p><p>Mickey bends down and runs his finger over the indented bite marks in his shoe before wordlessly slipping them on, not even bothering to tie the laces. He walks to the door without another word and grabs his coat before stepping out into the hallway. He shrugs the heavy jacket on and makes his way to the elevator only to be stopped by one of his elderly neighbors, Maria. </p><p>"Your sister needs to get rid of that cat." The old woman calls out to him. "It's always scratching the wall at night. That monster keeps me and Hector up!" She complains and Mickey only stops to give her a small but forced smile before hopping into the unsteady elevator. Despite the outburst, the whole floor has been nice about the cat causing problems and nobody has snitched to the landlord about Mickey violating the "No Pets" clause in his lease which he's grateful for. He just wishes Molly would have bought a nicer fucking cat that didn't destroy everything in its path. </p><p>Molly was right about it being freezing out. He keeps his head down and face out of the direction of the brisk wind as he walks down the block, passing store after store. He dodges pedestrians, gauging their distance by how close their boots get to his eye line. Its not hard for Mickey to realize he's at the record store because he can hear <em>Earth, Wind &amp; Fire</em> playing dully from down the street. The second he makes it inside the shop, he walks around the abandoned front counter and turns the volume down from ear splitting to medium. </p><p>Ray comes barreling out of the back room with a crowbar in his hand and dark eyes until he sees Mickey smirking at him. He allows himself a moment to adjust his authoritative stance and stare plainly at the small man.</p><p>"I almost capped your ass, son. Don't fuck with my radio." He threatens with the crowbar edged out. </p><p>"Uh huh." Mickey hums sardonically as he holds his hand out for the crowbar. Ray begrudgingly hands it over to him and shoves him out from behind the counter with a smile of his own coming through. Mickey sits the crowbar on the counter, sliding it away from view. </p><p>"What are you doing here on your day off?" Ray situates himself in front of the radio and starts searching through channels, critiquing the music every so often as Mickey runs his hands over his icy pink cheeks. </p><p>"Need to pick up my check. Normally, I'd wait until Monday, but I need to buy a new bed." Mickey distracts himself with glancing around the store, noticing a few stragglers towards the back but one in particular catches his eye. </p><p>In the far back of the store, sitting on the ground as he searches a stack of records on the shelf, is Ian Gallagher. He hadn't seen him since that day he panicked and recoiled from his touch like a fucking freak-show. All in all, Mickey was thankful that Ian had kept his distance. Since then, the feeling that Mickey had gotten that day had disappeared but standing here, watching the redhead, Mickey could feel a small buzz vibrating beneath his skin and it made him feel sick. He whips his head back to Ray who has his check clutched tightly to his chest, watching Mickey with passive eyes. </p><p>"What?" Mickey asks, his voice coming out in a higher pitch than he would've liked. Mickey must've looked like a deer caught in headlights right now. </p><p>Ray raises his eyebrows and shakes his head before pursing his lips. He nods towards Ian. "Kid's been in here every day this weekend." Ray tells Mickey like he should care about it. Mickey doesn't. He definitely doesn't. </p><p>"Why is that my business?" Mickey shrugs, extending his hand out for his check which Ray hands over without a word. </p><p>"Never said it was." Ray sings, going back to his radio but looking between it and Mickey suggestively. </p><p>Against Mickey's better judgement, he looks back at Ian who still has his head in the stacks, searching high and low for what Mickey assumes is the David Bowie album. </p><p>"The stock truck come yet?" Mickey asks Ray without looking away from Ian. The customer scrunches his nose up as he reads the back of an album and puts it back on the shelf in disappointment. </p><p>"About an hour ago." There's a hint of amusement in Ray's voice but Mickey can't find it in himself to comment on it. </p><p>"You unload the new merch?" Mickey asks, looking away from Ian and back at Ray. Ray is inherently lazy by nature so Mickey already knows the answer to that.</p><p>"Nope." Ray pops the 'p', grinning at Mickey from his place behind the counter.</p><p>Mickey plays with the collar of his shirt before looking down at the check in his hand. The edges of the envelope are frayed a little from his sweaty hands grasping it, but it doesn't take him longer than a moment to decide. "Cash this for me. I'll be back." He sighs, slapping the envelope on the counter-top and zipping past shelves to get to the stockroom. </p><p>The stockroom is stuffy and gives Mickey so much unwanted anxiety. Ray hired some high school kid to come once a week to unload stock and get rid of shit they haven't sold in a few months but since it was getting closer to finals, Ray barely had any help from the pubescent little shit. The boxes were all stacked on top of each other, so many that there was barely any room to walk. Some of the boxes had water damage from a leak in the roof that cost too much to fix and Ray also didn't have the time himself. He'd have to close down the shop for a few days and he just couldn't afford it. The new merchandise boxes were always marked with a red stamp so finding them is easy but finding the right box would be harder. </p><p>Mickey takes a box cutter off the desk and gets to work on his day off with a different feeling settling inside of him. Normally being at work was draining and he itched to leave but maybe it wasn't do bad. </p><p>It only takes him a few minutes to locate the album. The third box he opens is filled with about twenty of them. It's shiny and black, the plastic cover protecting it from harm. David Bowie sits on the cover with his pristine hair styled perfectly and it makes Mickey smile at it, thinking about how hard Ian has probably worked to find <em>this </em>but it only took Mickey a minute to produce it. He tucks it into his side before walking back out. A quick peek in Ian's direction to make sure he's still distracted is all it takes for Mickey to waltz back to the desk, album in hand. Ray hands him a roll of cash wrapped in a rubber-band with a weird look on his face that Mickey can't place. </p><p>And Mickey's not sure why he does it, but he takes a wad of bills out of the roll to pay for it. He hands it all to Ray along with the album in his hand. </p><p>"Make sure the redhead in that isle over there gets this. Don't tell him it's from me." Mickey tacks on the last part lowly before giving Ian one last look. Ian hasn't seemed to notice him yet and if he has, he hasn’t looked in Mickey’s direction. Something inside Mickey is glad for that.</p><p>Ray nods, not questioning his employee and that's all Mickey needs before he allows himself the pleasure of stepping outside and away from the suffocating shop. </p><p>Now, he just needs to buy a new bed and everything in his life will have order. <em>Hopefully.</em></p><p>As Mickey walks down the sidewalk, feeling the cold wind wash over him to replace the warmth, he starts to think about the warmth Ian's touch brought him and how in that moment, it was something no amount of artificial heat could bring him. This was man-made and if he tried hard enough he could still feel it all over his skin. But, none of that would do Mickey any good because he promised himself that he was done and he would never feel it again. He would have to become well acquainted with the feeling of cold and isolation just as he had before he met the likes of Ian Gallagher. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am having so much fun writing this. Thank you for those who keeps reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey loses something. Mickey gains something.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Mickey finds a way to drag the mattress from the store to his building, it's already well past afternoon as he stops and wipes the sweat from his brow. It's not hot, or even remotely warm out but his body temperature has risen significantly as he eyes the torn plastic around the bed. Thankfully the guy at the store had caved and told Mickey he could have the bed frame for it delivered to him the next day for half the charge when he saw that Mickey would inevitably be dragging it nine blocks in the cold. </p><p>His foot props the door open while he guides the bed inside on it's side, grunting and huffing when it snags on the door hinge. </p><p>"Motherfucker." He snaps at it, grasping at the plastic to pull it all the way through. The night manager watches curiously at the sight but makes no show of moving from his spot behind his desk which is guarded by a glass window. After a moment of readjusting and doubling his efforts, Mickey makes it into the lobby, resisting the urge to throw the mattress down and fall asleep right there. </p><p>He catches his breath, letting the mattress prop against the wall as he leans against it. For what it was worth, it's a solid mattress. It's soft and thick enough to the point where he wouldn't mind it being on the floor without a bed frame for tonight— miles better than his air mattress at least. When he looks over to the elevator, he notices that it has an <strong>OUT OF ORDER</strong> sign taped to it. A cinder block hits his stomach and weight confusion surges through him.</p><p>"Marcus." He growls, turning to the young night manager who, in the time Mickey had rested, turned back to his crossword book. </p><p>"Yes, Mr. Milkobitch." He acknowledges the fuming man standing in front of him, not taking his eyes off the paper. </p><p>"Milkovich." Mickey barks heatedly. </p><p>"That's not what I said?" He hums, shrinking further into his seat to get comfortable for a long shift of sitting on his ass and answering phone calls. </p><p>Ignoring his smart comment, Mickey points to the now busted elevator. "Why the hell is the elevator broken? It was working just fine when I left two hours ago!" </p><p>"And now it's not." Marcus says matter of factually, smiling when he solves the last line on his crossword. He turns to start on a new page when Mickey knocks on the glass separating them. </p><p>"I got a mattress here." He points to the bed that's slowly sliding down the wall from it's propped position. </p><p>"You do."</p><p>The response makes Mickey's blood boil and the old him would have easily punched a hole in the glass and grabbed him by his throat. But, Mickey is a new person now who doesn't use violence to solve problems or at least, that's what Ray told him. Ray once said, <em>violence is not a substitute and it does not compensate for whatever you feel you are lacking.</em> And Mickey felt like he was lacking a lot. Courage, confidence, patience,<em> love</em>. </p><p>"Can you call the apartment and have Molly come help?" He asks instead, placing himself back inside his body and out of the fantasy he had created of him shoving Marcus out into the heavy traffic that was whizzing in front of the building. </p><p>Marcus puts down his crossword begrudgingly and picks the phone up. He starts to bop his head back and forth as he listens to it ring on the other line. Molly obviously doesn't pick up and before Marcus has a chance to tell him that, Mickey gives him a middle finger before grabbing the bed and dragging it to the stairs. </p><hr/><p>Sure, Mickey makes it upstairs and sure the bed is in one piece but he isn't. Somewhere along the way Mickey had shed his jacket and thrown it down, leaving it there. He almost managed to cut every single finger on his hands, making him wince as he dragged it to his door. When he gets inside, he's quick to realize why Molly never picked up the phone. The steam coming out of his ears doesn't stop as he surveys the area. He's having trouble picking words so he just lands on the first ones that pop into his head. </p><p>"What the fuck?"</p><p>Molly turns on her heels and Mickey notices the pile of broken glass in her arms. "You're home." She laughs nervously, looking around at the mess. "Didn't expect you back so soon." She tries to make conversation with Mickey, no doubt to distract him, but it's not working so far. </p><p>"I was gone two hours to get a bed, Moll." He grunts, bringing the bed in before he has a chance to scream at her further or forget it in the hallway for someone to steal. </p><p>When Mickey was a kid, there wasn't a lot of tolerance or restraint when it came to his family's violent urges. You either got pistol whipped or smacked with a regular hand if you did something wrong. Molly didn't grow up in the Milkovich home— thank God— but she's seen Mickey get angry a lot. That's his default setting. Well, that and annoyed. So, when he finally steps inside and sees a mess, something inside of him goes back to what was once nurtured into him and he has the impulse to cause destruction but he doesn't. The feeling fades as fast as it comes and he heaves a sigh, walking towards Molly with his head tipped back towards the ceiling. </p><p>"Molly, it's fine." He starts picking the broken glass out of her arms, careful not to let it scratch her. He throws it all in the trash and grabs the broom to get the smaller pieces. </p><p>"I'm really sorry, Mickey. I looked away for like a second and she jumped up on the table. Suddenly, the vase was in a thousand tinnier pieces." Molly runs her hands through her hair in frustration as Mickey looks closer at what exactly was broken.</p><p>Of course, the cat couldn't break a mug or a lamp. No, those are all replaceable. The cat had managed to break the one object in this entire house Mickey cared about more than anything. By the red flower paintings on the chipped glass, it was clearly the Soyuzivka vase that his mother had bought on a trip to New York when he was younger— twelve maybe. In his move, he had taken it with him because he didn't figure any of her dresses or jewelry would be of any use to him and he had a new apartment that he needed to decorate. The tears threatened to spill as he realized he had just shoved half of it in the trash out of the heat of the moment and his legs worked quick to move and fish it out. </p><p>"Mick, stop you're gonna hurt yourself." Molly grabs his shoulder but he just shrugs her hand off, trying to keep his distance from everything right now. He doesn't want to hurt anyone or break anything else. </p><p>He starts throwing the big pieces on the counter, feeling his chest grow heavier and his stomach grow sick when the pieces grow smaller and smaller, making the artifact of his childhood completely unfix-able. He throws them all again, hearing them clink and smash against the plastic trash can. Its ruined for good and he can't do anything to bring it back. It's a helpless feeling. </p><p>"Mickey, what's wrong?" Molly asks and although it's not her fault, Mickey feels the rage that he's been surfacing and tabling surge forward and out of his mouth. </p><p>"Your stupid ass cat broke my shit." Mickey growls, throwing the broom down on the floor and walking towards the bed he had stacked against the wall. </p><p>"I'll replace whatever she broke." Molly laughs it off, picking the broom back up.</p><p>"You can't just replace everything! Some things can't be replaced!" Mickey shouts at the top of his lungs, feeling sweat drip down his face. When he goes to wipe it realizes that there are tears there, not sweat. </p><p><em>She's just trying to help. She doesn't know.</em> Mickey repeats the phrases in his head until he's calm again but when he catches sight of the cat at the kitchen counter, he stomps over, grabs it by the fur, and opens the front door to throw it out. The thing miraculously lands on all fours and Mickey slams the door in its face before it has a chance to fight back in.  </p><p>"Mickey, no!" Molly races on bare feet to go get the cat but Mickey stops her.</p><p>"The cat stays outside from now on!" He shouts, one hand on her shoulder but she jerks away towards the door knob. Mickey grabs her again and shoves her so hard she shuffles back a few feet, terror in her eyes from the sudden burst of anger in her brother. "I said no, Molly!"</p><p>"She can't sleep outside!"</p><p>"She's an animal, Molly! They're built for it!" Mickey argues, feeling his face get hot at the thought of ever seeing the animal again.</p><p>Molly's face remains hurt and Mickey takes a step back in shock at his own words. He remembers first hearing those words. His own father had yelled them to his mother when he was drunk one day, in no particular mood to be a father— though that was most days. He had called Mickey and his siblings a pack of wild animals and told them to get out of his house. Of course, he slept it off and didn't even remember what he had said the next day. </p><p>"She's my friend." Molly says weakly, reaching out to the door to plead with Mickey. Mickey sees the brown in her eyes turn darker and the edges turn red, brimmed with tears. He sees how broken she is and how insanely attached she is to the creature that is now clawing at the door. It's somewhat how he had felt about the vase but the vase wasn't breathing, it wasn't living, and it wasn't helpless. It was just a vase and this is his sister. </p><p>With a long sigh and short scratch of his eyebrow, he opens the door and lets the cagey animal in. He doesn't look down at it or wait for the reunion between the cat and Molly. He just drags his bed into his room and shuts the door behind him. The bed takes up all of the lighter beige spot on the floor, making it seem like it was never really there in the first place which is perfect for Mickey. He doesn't bother furnishing it with sheets or pillows as he slams down on it, waiting for it to bust like the air mattress would. When it doesn't, he rolls right over with his back to the door and lets his muscles relax from the excruciating trip up the stairs. His thighs burn and his arms feel like jelly. He's almost positive the soreness is going to last a few days. The plastic crinkles under him but it still doesn't take away from the wonderful feel of the cushion under him. His eyes still sting with tears and he lets out a shaky breath as he falls in and out of sleep.</p><p>Mickey's not sure how long he's out of it but he knows that he wakes up to Molly knocking on his door, asking to come in. The passed time had given him a second to cool down so he doesn't immediately bit her head off but he's still angry.</p><p>"Is the cat with you?" He mumbles, taking his forearm away from his eyes to see Molly standing there with her hands behind her back like a child asking to sleep with their parents in the middle of a thunderstorm. </p><p>"No, I locked her in my room." Molly smiles, hoping to take the burn off of the topic and Mickey finds that it sort of helps— seeing his younger sister smile. He has another sister, Mandy, but they don't talk as much as he'd like since he left the childhood home. He had asked her to come with him, but it was all excuses that only served to piss him off. She calls every so often but the conversations are short. He misses her but he would never tell her or anyone else that. </p><p>"Good. She's in prison until further notice." Mickey had been to prison unfortunately and the hypoallergenic mattress in Molly's room was a lot compared to the ones in lock-up. </p><p>Molly uses that as her cue to walk further in the room and sit on the edge of the bed. She gives Mickey a satisfied smile before producing an old frame with a poorly drawn picture in it. As Mickey squints a little harder, he comes to see that it's a replica— not perfect— of his mother's vase. Molly's not an artist, and nor does she claim to be so this was way out of left field for her. The sentiment was nice though. He won't say it's better than the real thing but it makes the sting inside of him dissipate and it's soothing. </p><p>"I wasn't sure of every detail but I wanted to get close enough." Molly sort of apologizes for her work and Mickey has to stop himself from berating her for it. <em>She doesn't need to apologize for anything</em>, he wants to say. </p><p>"It look's great, Molly." He gives her a short smile before going back to the drawing. When Molly hands it to him, he can see that it's been done in red Sharpie and something black that's starting to run together on the page. </p><p>"What's the black stuff?" Mickey runs his finger over the glass of the frame as he starts to see details and similarities in the drawing that he would see if he was looking directly at his mother's vase. The outline of the vase is uneven and a little sideways and the flowers are crooked but they're there. It's all there and it does well to remind Mickey of the old ceramic vase itself. </p><p>"It's crayon." Molly says guilty. "The black marker ran out half way through." </p><p>Mickey actually laughs as he thinks about Molly resorting to a half broken crayon as she looked for something to draw with. And with that in mind, he's sure that it's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him. He doesn't make a move to get up, smile, or even breathe. He wants to remember this moment with everything in tact. Molly's hands shaking from embarrassment, Mickey's heart beating rapidly inside his chest out of adoration and the semblance of silence without that damn cat. </p><p>"It's pretty damn close." Mickey offers, looking at it again before he rolls off his bed with as much grace as a baby horse, and sits the frame on his dresser which finally has a centerpiece. </p><p>"It sucks but I'm sorry." Molly shrugs, crossing her legs on the bed as Mickey sits back down. The plastic makes noise and he should probably remove it before doing anything further but Mickey can't find it in him to care because he's still exhausted and wants to sleep until it's time for him to go to work in the morning. "What was so important about the vase?" Molly asks and Mickey hesitates before telling her. </p><p>It's not like his mother was a secret to the world. She was a wife, a mother, a sister, a grandmother even, but he was still the only breathing person on this earth who really knew her. She had told Mickey that herself when he was a child. In his entire life, Mickey had never had anything seemingly close to a best friend but his mother— she was pretty damn close to it. So, when Molly asks about her, it's strange because he hasn't talked about her or even wanted to talk about her ever. When she was around, he never needed to talk about her and after she left, he never wanted to. She was his to keep in his memory. But as Molly sits here, the only person he's gotten as close to since she left, he wants to tell her. He wants her to know who he got his good traits from, even if there aren't very many. Molly never knew her because she had her own mother and the only blood they shared came from their father but he finds himself wishing Molly had known her instead of the abusive matriarch Molly had grown to know. So, his gift to Molly is the memory of his own mother. </p><p>"It was my mother's. She used to hide toys and cassette tapes in it for me to get in the middle of the night once my dad had fallen asleep. She'd leave me notes that I'd reach inside and get before school some days." Mickey explains, exhaling as the wave of raw emotions hits him but with one look back at the drawing on his dresser, it all drifts away. </p><p>He feels Molly grab his hand and it's nice to feel some sort of comfort even though most of the time the feeling of affection repulses him. But this reminds him of when Ian grabbed his hand.</p><p>Somehow, most of his thoughts always fall back to Ian— the one who had offered him comfort and asked for nothing in return. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ian gets a job.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warning: homophobic slurs and implied self-harm.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>March 20th, 1978; Chicago, Illinois</strong>
</p><p>By now, the winter weather had already started to fade out, making it nearly impossible for Mickey to wear his contacts without the humidity in the air agitating his eyes so with a frown on his face, he puts his glasses on that morning. They fall down his nose and make him look smaller than he is, which is already irritatingly average. His jeans feel tighter around his hips and the fabric scratches at his sensitive skin. Molly must've switched detergent or something. </p><p>That morning Molly does her best to drop hints and compliment him but Mickey just huffs over the mug of coffee in his hand, praying that his eyes adjust soon because wearing his glasses was more trouble than it was worth. The only good thing about the weather was no more hefty coats weighing him down and he could start to wear regular shoes with no risk of snow or rain getting inside them, leaving him with soaked socks and a crappy attitude the whole day.</p><p>The flannel feels light on his shoulders as he met the cool weather for the first time in months. Chicago was known for it's icy winters but hot as fuck summers and you could never tell which would come on what day exactly. You just had to stick your hand out the window and guess. </p><p>There's still melted sludge on the streets as Mickey kicks his way down the street, playing with an empty can until he gets to the front of Ray's. Ray is inside again and as much as Mickey likes him, he needs a few moments of solace before he walks inside and has to take orders for the rest of the day. He allows himself a glance at the sun, enjoying the bubble of heat it brings to him. The sky is a gleaming blue with the occasional cloud and the wind is at a dissipating pace— the wispy hairs on his head flapping and tickling the skin of his forehead.</p><p>Mickey has always appreciated nature; he's just never really gotten the chance to do it. As a child he was always met with a swift backhand to the face if he so much as uttered how good it felt outside or how beautiful the sunset looked at the right hour. Even now, he flinches when the wind roughs his cheeks, feeling the semblance of a calloused hand across the skin of his face. The bruises and scars are still there somehow and maybe they'll never go away. </p><p>Mickey doesn't get a chance to enjoy his peace much longer because a hand taps him on the shoulder and be breaks out of his trance, fists drawn up to his chest, ready to swing. </p><p>"Jesus, sorry." The voice mutters through a breathless laugh and of course, though Mickey had only heard it once, he knew exactly who it belonged to. He brings his hands down to his sides in embarrassment, mumbling what sounded like an apology. Ian gives him a gentle smile, waving him off in the way that Ian would even he felt a little offended by the outburst. </p><p>"You can't sneak up on people like that." Mickey grumbles, fixing the glasses on his face that had fallen down at the sudden turn of his head. </p><p>The movement draws Ian's attention and he points a long, freckled finger towards Mickey's flushed face. "Didn't know you wore glasses, man." Ian chuckles, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. </p><p>"Usually don't." Mickey offers in a shrinking voice before turning his head to the glass window of the store to distract himself from looking at the man beside him.</p><p>"They're cute." Ian compliments them and for some reason, it feels different than when Molly did it less than an hour ago. This time, Mickey doesn't reply sarcastically or roll his eyes. Mickey tries to keep his chest from moving quickly with the fast beat of his heart as he quirks a brow at Ian in question. Ian just shrugs back, giving Mickey a cheeked grin that the smaller man has to jerk his tight gaze away from before he ingrains it in his memory and sees it whenever he closes his eyes.</p><p>He notices just how close Ian is and the earthly smell is back, like Ian's just slept in a park. "You going in?" Mickey asks, sniffling subtly to get another hint of Ian's scent before he verbally abuses himself for it later. </p><p>"Yeah." Ian answers, his eyes twinkling in a way that makes Mickey's stomach flutter. </p><p>Mickey nods once, leading the way inside before holding the door open for Ian. He stops in front of the desk to switch shifts with Ray, but keeping one eye on Ian as the taller man squeezes behind him, their clothes brushing together in the small space in front of the door. The skin of Mickey's neck heats up and he rubs furiously at it, trying to get rid of any residual warmth left by Ian Gallagher. </p><p>Ian wanders around the store, browsing shelves Mickey is sure he's been looking at all weekend. At that thought, Mickey furrows his eyebrows evenly as he turns to Ray, curiosity taking over. </p><p>"Did you give Ian that David Bowie album?" Mickey asks Ray, drawing his attention up from finding the perfect channel on the radio. Mickey swears that Ray has spent the better half of his life tinkering with that radio and he's never asked about the obsession so he won't start today. </p><p>"Ian?" Ray snickers, giving Mickey a playful look before going back to his radio. </p><p>"Redheaded kid from yesterday—He just walked into the store behind me." Mickey deadpans, giving Ray a raised brow. </p><p>"When did you walk in?" Ray asks, immediately waving Mickey off. "Never mind that. Yeah, I tried to give it to him. The boy nearly ran out of the store. Didn't take it with him, though. I kept your cash somewhere around here." Ray trails off, moving around behind the counter as he makes an 'aha' noise, handing the wad of cash to Mickey. </p><p>Mickey accepts it, eyeing the clean bills before looking at Ian who is crouched on the floor of store again, glancing from shelf to shelf, reading the backs of vinyls as if they're books. Mickey can't for the life of him conjure up a reason as to why Ian wouldn't take the album and why would he run out of the store? Mickey knew that these answers could only come from Ian but talking to him to get them was easier said than done. Mickey decides right there that it's none of his business and if Ian didn't want the offering, he would just drop it right there. When Ray finds the channel he wants, he turns it all the way up, causing Mickey to grab at his ears in pain. </p><p>"Turn it down, dickhead!" Mickey shouts, reaching over the counter but Ray swats his hand away. </p><p>"You can't turn down disco!" Ray cackles, shimmying to the beat before coming around the counter to grab Mickey's hands so Mickey will twirl with him. Mickey allows him one spin before he breaks away from a grinning Ray, moving behind the counter. </p><p>"Maybe if you had a working hearing aid." Mickey snarks but if Ray hears him— which Mickey doubts— he doesn't pay him any attention as he grabs a broom and heads to the stockroom to leave Mickey alone. </p><p>The older boy distracts himself with old receipts and balancing the cash register and that works for a total of six minutes, Mickey counted. His eyes drift to the younger boy who he finds already looking at him sheepishly. Ian's eyes pan down to the record in his hands before he sighs, heaving his way off the floor, feet padding to the front desk. Mickey is quick to shut the music down, not even bothering to look and make sure Ray isn't coming out of the back room to kill him. Something slowly eats it's way out of Mickey's chest at the sight of Ian, floating up and up his throat. When Ian makes it directly in front of him, something similar to a squeak comes out. </p><p>"Hey, man." Ian smiles at the blush on Mickey's cheeks and Mickey wants to leave to find a seven story window to jump out of. </p><p>"This all?" Mickey asks, clearing his throat and letting his voice drop a few octaves to balance out the high pitched monstrosity. </p><p>Ian nods, shrugging a little as he sits the album on the desk. It's not the David Bowie album and Mickey knows they have them in stock so he can't stop himself from asking. </p><p>"No David Bowie?" His voice falters a little bit as he meets Ian's eyes. He can see the younger man's face fall just a fraction but Ian quickly recovers, offering Mickey a white toothed smile in return. </p><p>"Turns out Lip already has it so I decided to just get his picky ass something else." Ian crosses his arms across his chest and Mickey has to stop himself from watching the fabric of the thin gray jacket bunch up at his biceps. Ian is always wearing that willowy jacket, no matter the weather but it always looks good on him like it's glued to his skin. </p><p>Something inside Mickey slips up as he forgets his 'no conversation' policy and just stares at the barring muscles in Ian's arms. "Is that why you didn't want the album I left for Ray to give you yesterday?" Mickey doesn't wait for Ian's answer as he keeps going. <em>Why not? He's already opened his mouth and started talking, right?  </em>"Said you practically ran out the store or something." Mickey casts his eyes down to look at the album, trying not to sound like a hurt little kid on the playground but fails miserably. He doesn't know why, but Ian rejecting the stupid vinyl really messed with his head which is unusual because normally, Mickey wouldn't have even offered in the first place. </p><p>Mickey can hear Ian sigh heavily and he sees Ian's hands land flat on the counter in between them. </p><p>"I didn't want your charity, man." </p><p>Mickey is shocked to say the least. His entire life, Mickey had seen pity and he had been offered charity. When he was younger, he and his siblings used to get their new clothes for the school year from the local church. He could see the sad look in the priest's eyes as he dropped the bags off at the door each time and it used to make him sick to his stomach. Mickey had seen charity and he hated it so having Ian think that he saw him as a charity case makes him feel ill. </p><p>"Wasn't fucking charity." He grunts, plopping down on the stool behind him to finally meet Ian's eyes again. They're a darker shade of green this time and Mickey finds himself keeping eye contact, just to see them change colors a little longer. "I was apologizing for being a dick the other day." Mickey huffs, rubbing both hands down his face. </p><p>Ian cracks a smile, biting the skin of his bottom lip shortly before nodding once. "You don't gotta apologize, Mick. We all got our own shit going on." </p><p>
  <em>Mick. </em>
</p><p>The shortening of his name coming from Ian’s mouth doesn’t feel the same as when Molly or Ray use it. No, Mickey felt like it was something more coming from Ian. Like Ian felt safe enough around Mickey that he could bestow a title like that to him.</p><p>
  <em>Mick.</em>
</p><p>The older man can't stop himself from smiling as he looks around the counter for the album and sees that Ray was once again too lazy to put it on a shelf so it's still sitting behind the register. Mickey places it on top of Ian's already chosen album which is <em>The Stranger</em> by Billy Joel. Ain't that fucking fitting.</p><p>Ian stares down at the two albums before looking back up with Mickey, something like adoration mixed with gratitude mixed behind the green irises and it makes Mickey's heart feel eight pounds heavier in his chest but he doesn't dare look away. The foreign feeling starts to swell in his chest as Ian blindly fumbles in his pockets for cash but Mickey places a hand between them, palm down. </p><p>"Don't worry about it." Mickey finally breaks the eye contact to watch Ian's hand slip out of his pocket and pat the thigh of his light wash jeans. </p><p>"What?" Ian furrows his eyebrows but keeps the same warm look in his eyes which Mickey is thankful for. He always wants Ian to look at him like that. No one has ever looked at him like that— not Molly, Mandy, or his own mother. This was something cosmic that made his blood run hot and cold as if it were confused just like Mickey was. </p><p>"Ray's not gonna give a shit." Mickey excuses, knowing that it's a lie. Ray would absolutely chop Mickey up and feed him to the over-sized rats in the back alley, <em>Little Shop of Horrors</em> style. But, weirdly enough, Mickey couldn't bring himself to care. He also felt weird having Ian hand him money in any form or fashion. </p><p>Mickey tried his best to remind himself that Ian is a customer and that he has to pay, that's how the economy runs but the economy is in the shitter anyway and worst comes to worst, Mickey can always take it out of his check for the week. </p><p>"No, man, it's fine." Ian declines, offering Mickey a warm smile to let him know he appreciates the gesture and Mickey doesn't feel rejected by it, Ian's glowing cheeks softening any blow that was there before. Ian sits the cash on the counter, making no move to grab his vinyls but instead propping his hip on the wood and turning to look out at the seemingly empty store, save for Ray in the backroom, humming loudly over the music. </p><p>Mickey chances a look at Ian, trying his best not to seem creepy as he watches the pale skin of his jaw flex and his chin jut out. His broad shoulders relax and he turns to Mickey with a sated smile.</p><p>”How long have you worked here?" Ian asks, clearly just trying to make conversation and it's not too personal of a question so Mickey hesitates before answering. </p><p>"Since I was 18." Mickey doesn't give Ian anything other than that so Ian hums softly and the sound vibrates off the bare skin of Mickey's neck. </p><p>"Any particular reason why you chose the record store?" Ian asks. </p><p>"I like music." And it's not a lie but it's also not the truth. Mickey, for one of the few times in his life, feels bad for lying or not baring his soul to Ian. </p><p>"Mick." Ian draws out, tilting his body over the counter just an inch closer to Mickey and the older man can smell the mint on his breath. The sensation makes him shiver on the stool, drawing backwards with the movement. He tries to keep his face passive but the kicked puppy pout on Ian's face makes him feel indifferent. </p><p>Mickey scratches his eyebrow in thought. The story isn't exactly anything to write home about. It was simple but one of the more humbling stories of his time on this earth and if he felt that he could tell anyone, it was Ian. Ian had this way about him that seemed bright and open whereas most people around Mickey felt like human wastelands where secrets went to die. Ian radiated sunlight and warmth, like Mickey's secrets would somehow be safe behind his grassy green eyes. Ian raised his eyebrows at Mickey's apprehension and with an elongated, dramatic sigh, Ian clapped his hands once, knowing he had won. </p><p>"Fuck, yeah." He punches the air like a story about Mickey's past was similar to getting the gift he wanted on Christmas. </p><p>"Easy, man.” Mickey chastises him and Ian immediately centers himself, staring at Mickey in a way that softens the pit in the shorter man’s chest. “When I was a kid, I was a bit of an asshole." Mickey started and Ian snorted lowly. </p><p>"When you were a kid?" Mickey gives him a short look and Ian makes a motion to his mouth like he's locking his lips and throwing away the key, making Mickey's head feel dizzy with his attention now on Ian's lips. They move again to form the word 'sorry' and Mickey is broken out of the spell. </p><p>He coughs and goes back to where he stopped, playing with the pale skin of his wrists to distract himself from the flood of emotions. </p><p>"I was a piss ant little criminal, basically— going around, stealing, breaking shit— in and out of detention centers for the majority of my teen years. I had a permanent bed in <em>Cook County Youth Detention</em> lock up, that's how often I was there. Sheets were always made up nice and pretty for my arrival each time." Mickey sighs as he thinks about himself all those years ago and it makes him feel miserable, like he's reliving it all. "Me and some friends used to go around to local businesses, fuck around and steal from the safes in the back or the registers until one day, a few weeks after my 18th birthday, we tried to rob this one place and the owner came out of the back room, tackled me to the floor while my other friends just ran away. He called the cops and since I was of age, I went to prison this time— not juvie." Mickey internally groans at what an idiot he was at the time. He was just angry all the time, carrying around all of this extra weight that his father had passed along. </p><p>"Ray?" Ian asks, encouraging Mickey on when he notices the raven haired man is stuck in his own head. </p><p>Mickey nods softly, looking to the side as he hears the older man in the back room continue to sing along to the radio. He pushes the rim of his glasses nervously before he continues. "Ray came to visit me a few days after my trial. He said that if I came to work at his store he would drop the charges." Mickey snorts, thinking about the fresh black eye that sat on his skin when Ray came to visit him. Ray had taken one look at him, told him he looked ridiculous in the orange jumpsuit and posted Mickey's bail without another thought. "Still not sure why he wanted me to come work with him considering I had just tried to rob him but whatever. I didn't have anyone else looking after me at the time. I lived with Ray for about a year or something and when I had saved up enough money, I moved into my own place but kept working here." Mickey spares Ian the Milkovich family drama and he just nods along, not bothering to ask which Mickey is grateful for.</p><p>His early teen years with his father was another conversation. </p><p>Ian looks deep in thought as he stares at Mickey's hands for a moment. "The tattoos?" </p><p>Mickey shrugs, looking down at the black ink. Back then, they represented a life to him. The words engraved on his skin were to show people his rough edges, so they wouldn't chance getting too close. Mickey decides that that answer is too deep so he gives Ian a watered down version.</p><p>"I don't know why I got them. They were supposed to be this group thing but everyone else ended up getting snakes and tigers on their backs and I ended up with this shit on my knuckles." Mickey frowns as he watches the ink flex with his fingers as he closes and opens his fist instinctively. </p><p>"Do you talk to those people anymore? The friends who abandoned you?" Ian asks, genuine concern in his voice. Ian's eyes are big and his forehead is creased and Mickey wishes that he could look away but he can't so he doesn't. The word 'abandoned' falls from Ian's lips and it makes Mickey's chest feel tight. He had always known the feeling of abandonment, that's for sure. </p><p>The younger man's tone is surprising to Mickey. Not that Mickey assumed Ian would run away after hearing the story. Southside was not known for it's upstanding citizens and if Ian was honest, he wasn't perfect. He had gotten in trouble with the cops many times. It's just, not many people care in true American form. Most people absorb one another, taking what they can get and offering nothing else in return. But standing here, listening and caring, Ian is giving Mickey something priceless but Mickey can't place exactly what it is. </p><p>"No." Mickey shakes his head finally, keeping eye contact with the young Gallagher and something flashes across Ian's face at that. It looks like relief but it disappears as it comes— quickly. Mickey doesn't bother trying to guess because Ian opens his mouth wordlessly a couple of times before he closes it again.</p><p>Ian just nods, quirking one half of his lip up into a minute smile and that seems to be enough for Mickey. "Good." Ian says.</p><p>They stay there, still, drinking in the intimacy of the moment. Ian's hands that are splayed on the counter inch their way across the material, almost like they're crawling towards something. It's a delicate movement but enthusiasm floods through Mickey at the thought that Ian's going to touch him again. As Mickey begins to crave it, he feels scared all the same and he's not sure if he's about to cry of happiness or anger when Ray slides out of the back room, broom across his shoulders, behind his head. </p><p>Ray huffs exhaustively, coming to join the two boys obliviously as if he hadn't just interrupted a moment. Ian stares down at the ground, his hands resting on the counter still, not moving any closer to Mickey and Mickey stares down at the fingers curiously, wondering if they'd feel the same as they once did. That feels like forever ago to Mickey and if Ray hadn't popped up, he thinks that he might've let Ian hold his hand. The thought alone scares him and makes him feel small as the stream of words fire through his brain like bullets. </p><p>
  <em>Faggot. Queer. Pansy. Pole-smoking bitch.</em>
</p><p>The voice in his head grinds each syllable out, like it always has, even when the voice was standing in front of him all those years ago. They burn his skin and at first he doesn't realize why but when he looks down, he notices the red, moon shaped marks on his wrist from the nail bites of his finger digging incessantly. There's muffled talking and he keeps his head down, tuning into the between Ray and Ian conversation after a moment when he remembers where he is. </p><p>"I'll be around for a while longer so if you need any help..." Ian trails off suggestively and it lures Ray in instantly.</p><p>Mickey doesn't miss Ian's words when he says he'll be around a little longer but it makes Mickey wonder where Ian was before he stumbled across the record store and where he would go after he left. All Mickey can seem to focus on is Ian here, now—not Ian anywhere else in the world, living his life without a second thought of Mickey. </p><p>"If you'll work for minimum wage, I'll fire the little bastard who normally mans the stock room." Ray offers earnestly, excitement in his tone from no longer having to do all of the heavy box lifting. </p><p>Ian doesn't even take a moment to think about it before he's nodding happily and extending a hand to Ray. Mickey's sure that if Ian had a tail, it would be wagging. </p><p>"Deal." Ian smiles widely, the grin reaching the creases of his eyes as he turns to Mickey, hoping to get something similar back in return. </p><p>Mickey feels like an asshole as he just sits there, frozen, so he lamely throws up a thumb and shrinks back down onto the stool. Ray grabs Ian's shoulder, leading him all the way to the stockroom to show him the ropes. Ian gives Mickey a sad glance before he disappears behind the wall, leaving the smaller man to sulk. As much as Mickey likes Ian's company, being around him everyday for more than a few minutes at a time was going to take a lot of self restraint on Mickey's part because somehow, Ian made Mickey go against his basic instinct which was to remain hard— stoic. </p><p>Ian made Mickey feel something intense to simply put it. He made the smaller man's skin burn with energy where it normally remained cold. Ian's laugh touched Mickey's heart which usually stayed remote, away from everything including boys with bright smiles. Ian made Mickey feel like he was challenged, always fighting for air in the man's presence. </p><p>Mickey was unsure what would happen from this day on, but he figured that if Ian had anything to do with it, it couldn't be that bad. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ian makes Mickey think about the truth.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warning: internalized homophobia and mention of physical abuse.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>March 28th, 1978; Chicago, Illinois</strong>
</p><p>Recent events drew Mickey too far into his head to reconcile with reality. </p><p>It seemed like everyday for the past week, Ian had been lurking around the store, slowly crawling his way under Mickey's skin in ways that weren't all that subtle. Every so often, he'd bring Mickey coffee or breakfast which was nice enough and Mickey didn't think anything of it after the second day it happened. It just slowly became one of those things that Mickey thought Ian did because he was a sweet person. It was almost as if life hadn't knocked the smile off of his face yet. Mickey found himself hoping that it never would. </p><p>Then, Ian started to invite Mickey places like out with his friends or to a bar and though Mickey would decline, Ian would always say, "It doesn't hurt to ask, I guess." </p><p>Mickey also noticed that Ian read the newspaper every morning like an old man, doing the crossword and reading every word, front to back, as if his life depended on it. Mickey didn't mind it much. Ian had a chair that he sat in by the desk on the far, empty wall and he kept quiet until he was done. Some days he would let out a sigh of relief and some days he would grow silent, almost like he was forcing himself into submerged sadness. </p><p>One day, it got to Mickey— the silence. He didn't know what was troubling Ian but he felt a twinge of desperation to know. The younger man had always been bright and that day, he looked angry at something that Mickey wished he could will away. That was another thing Mickey caught onto quickly in the last week. He found that he was copying Ian's emotions like somehow they had become his own. If Ian was sad, it seeped it's way inside Mickey like radiation. If Ian was happy, he smiled and laughed and that became Mickey's mood. It was a weird thing, to feel tethered to someone else through emotions that weren't his own. Mickey hadn't decided if he liked the feeling yet. </p><p>But nonetheless, Mickey asked Ian what was wrong and Ian regarded him with a low grunt as he balled the newspaper up. </p><p>"Just some political assholes." He shrugs as if what he just read didn't impact his mood. </p><p>Mickey could feel in the back of his head, like a prickling, where this was going but he shifted in his stool anyway, giving Ian the attention he deserved. </p><p>"Political assholes, huh? Gonna have to be more specific, man. They're all assholes." He jokes, feeling joy when a small smile works its way onto Ian face but Ian bites the inside of his cheek, determined to be angry. He doesn't look like he's opening up any further so Mickey goes against his basic instinct to leave him alone and he prods again. "What's the thing with the newspaper?"</p><p>"What thing with the newspaper? I just read it." Ian says plainly.</p><p>"Yeah." Mickey waves his hand vaguely in front of him. "But you read it every morning. It's like you can't start your day without reading it." Mickey forces a laugh but stops when he sees Ian's face fall. "Seriously, man, what's wrong?" </p><p>Ian stays silent, almost like he's contemplating between a truth and a lie and Mickey isn't sure which one he's going to give him, Worse yet, he's not sure which one would be which. Finally Ian sighs, looking down at the wadded paper in his hand. "I just think it's good to know what's going on in the world. The worst thing is not knowing." The younger man shrugs heavily like he’s exhausted just talking about whatever it is. </p><p>Mickey feels his eyebrows set and his frown fade in at Ian's words. "Not knowing what?"</p><p>"Just..." He trails off, biting at the skin inside his cheek. "Not knowing." </p><p>They leave it at that and Mickey watches Ian stand before walking to the back room without a word.</p><p>Ever since then, Mickey has felt his thoughts about Ian becoming more frequent. He began to realize that try as he might, he doesn't know much about the guy. He knows that he has an army of siblings and that he never graduated high school but instead got his GED and moved away Southside until recently. Mickey doesn't pry because whenever he gets close, he reminds himself that they aren't friends and Ian is more of a closed book that Mickey is when it comes down to it. </p><p>He discovered that Ian liked to talk but not about deep, personal stuff. Ian could talk for hours about comic books and music and sometimes politics even though he knew Mickey hated politics. Ian had recently got into them the more he read the paper and he would always come into the store on his days off to give Mickey his takes on the headlines before storming back out and shuffling with the wind. It never failed to give Mickey a headache but he figured it was fine as long as Ian just kept talking— Mickey didn't care about what exactly. </p><p>Today though, Ian seemed intent on making sure the conversation never died. He was sitting on the counter shouting at Mickey from across the store as the older man stocked the shelves and hung onto every word per usual. </p><p>"I mean, there's just no way that for you to kill the Incredible Hulk so why would you put him up against Batman? Batman has no special powers!" Ian shouts, shaking his head as he props the comic up in his knees. When Mickey glances over at him, he notices how small Ian looks, folded in on himself as he reads the book. "They're in two completely different universes, too! Hulk is Marvel, Batman is DC." Ian continues and Mickey just gives him a baited hum and a look of amusement before he goes back to stacking records and wiping down shelves. </p><p>That's how most of their days go— Ian doing most of the talking and Mickey just intent on listening and making sure he remembers everything. Ian shares his favorite music with Mickey and if you caught him on a good day, he would share stories about his childhood. Suffice it to say, Mickey found himself wanting to meet Carl Gallagher now. </p><p>"You don't talk much." Ian points out as Mickey walks to the desk, his only task for the day done.</p><p>Mickey takes a seat on the stool, noticing how Ian lets his legs fall off the counter right in front of Mickey's body. From the position, if Mickey had scooted half a foot forward, Ian would be straddling his waist and it makes Mickey feel sick at the thought but also excites him. Ian's foot kicks out and smacks Mickey's arm, drawing his eyes back up to the younger man's face.</p><p>It's a beautiful face— Mickey decides. A face you would see on a 100 foot screen at the drive-in but instead it's here, for Mickey's viewing only.</p><p>"What?" Mickey rubs his eyes tiredly, desperately trying to erase the thought of Ian in that way from his head. He can't be thinking like this. It's not right. </p><p>"I said you don't talk much. Why?"</p><p>"You talk enough for the both of us, man, that's why." Mickey shakes his head in clean motion before relaxing back in the stool, propping his feet up on the pegs so his knees are bent at an angle.</p><p>He looks down at his own thighs and notices his dark jeans are covered in dust so he starts rubbing at them distractedly, noticing how the store has fallen in silence. It's the kind of silence that swallows everything in the room and it makes Mickey's heart race. </p><p>When he looks up, he finds Ian staring at him with his head tilted slightly. His lips are pursed and though and Mickey raises his eyebrows in question. </p><p>"Tell me something about you." Ian decides to land there and Mickey wishes he hadn't. Mickey doesn't have anything worth saying and if he did, he's not sure if he even could. </p><p>"C'mon, Gallagher, I ain't doing this game with you. We ain't a bunch of girls." He runs a shaky hand through his hair and watches the disappointment flood through the redhead's face. It makes him feel sick or guilty or both but he has to draw boundaries. He knows that Ian just likes to talk so he asks him instead, "Alright, tough guy. Since you wanna chit chat so much, why don't you tell me something about yourself?" Mickey would be lying if she said he didn't want to know more about Ian.</p><p>He reaches a friendly hand out to smack the younger man's thigh playfully but before he can pull it back, Ian grabs it and laces the fingers together like a web. </p><p>It's new and it makes Mickey's skin clam up immediately at the warm contact. There's a dull buzzing in his chest at the sensation and he can't seem to take his eyes off of the way Ian's hand engulfs his. The skin of Ian's hand it hot, like touching a stove but the more time passes, the more soothing the once shocking feeling gets. The moment feels ruined by the thoughts in Mickey's head feeding him and urging him to let go, step away, pull out of the charging embrace but he can't and he hates himself for it, but likes the feeling of Ian's hand in his. </p><p>Ian's long fingers brush over the peachy skin of Mickey's knuckles, driving chills to hide in every corner of Mickey's arm. He starts to trace the letter of the tattoos as Mickey's chest starts to move up and down, faster and faster until Ian finally sighs, the sound busting the glass that was attached to the moment. </p><p>Mickey lets out an awkward cough, using his other hand to prop it on knee and hold his head up. When he glances up, he sees Ian staring intently at his hand in wonder. </p><p>The older man feels like if he doesn't find a way to slip out, he's going to be stuck here forever, holding Ian's large hand and maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could find an excuse to touch Ian in other places like his face or his broad shoulders. Ian skims down Mickey's hand and to his wrist as he draws circles in the blotched skin and the chills in his arm have crawled up to his neck now. </p><p>"I like you." Ian says, watching his own hand doodle patterns on the skin and Mickey feels his breath hitch in his throat. </p><p>"What?" He says dumbly, and maybe some part of him just wanted Ian to repeat it so that he could replay it and relive it but another part of him wasn't entirely sure what Ian meant. </p><p>Ian still doesn't look up but his hold on Mickey's hand tightens. "Something about me is that I don't like a lot of people but I like you." </p><p>Mickey lets out a breath and it's audibly shaky like a rickety table with three legs or those earthquakes in Southern California that he'd heard about. It was like that. Mickey normally doesn’t do well with admitting his feelings but he finds a way to say the words to Ian in a way that is detached, but still somehow true  </p><p>"I like you too, man. You're a cool dude." Mickey smiles proudly like he's happy at himself for being able to say the words but when Ian finally looks up, a frown set on his pink lips. </p><p>He drops the raven haired man's hand without another word and shuffles off the counter until he's standing above Mickey, his face set in frustration. He's in pain but to Mickey, he just looks aggravated. He might be that too but Mickey's never been great at reading people or their minds. Ian gives Mickey one last parting look of hurt before he walks around the counter and to the door. </p><p>"I'll see you tomorrow, Mick." </p><p>And with that, Mickey is left scratching the back of his neck until the skin is raw and the chills Ian left in his arm are gone. He closes up the store alone that night for the first time in weeks, feeling cold and bored for the majority of the day.</p><p>The sun is setting by the time he gets around to locking the door and walking down the sidewalk back to his building. His mind drifts back to Ian and everything that had happened in that captured moment where he felt stuck but free all at once. When Ian had grabbed his hand, he felt scared like it shouldn't be happening. Displays of affection were uncommon where he came from and if you were a man, you didn't touch another man like that unless you wanted to die. That was how Mickey had always seen it go down and believe it or not when Ian had first grabbed him, Mickey felt the instinct to swing under duress but slowly, it was like Ian had sedated, made him feel safe. That was just one of the ways Ian had managed to crawl under Mickey's skin.</p><p>Ian likes to touch and Mickey found that he didn’t hate it. </p><p>In more ways than one, Ian was unlike the people he knew in Southside growing up and it made him wish that he had hung out with him when he was younger. There's this reoccurring thought that Mickey has where he believes that maybe, if he and Ian had been friend's growing up, his life may have turned out a little different. Maybe not better but different. </p><hr/><p>When Mickey makes it up to his floor, he finds Hector sitting at the window at the end of the hall, smoking. </p><p>"Hey, Hector." He greets exhausted as they still haven't fixed the elevator yet. </p><p>Hector was a sweet, old man who was married to Maria. From what Mickey understood, he and Maria had been married since they were a little younger than Mickey. They were devout Catholic who owned a flower shop over in Northside but Mickey could never understand why they lived in this shithole apartment in the Southside. They had lived in the apartment next door to Mickey since they day Mickey moved in and never really bothered anyone. Though, Mickey knew Maria was nosy and nagged everyone on the floor, they never shouted at one another and if they had marital problems, they didn't involve others. Mickey often wondered what a healthy marriage looked like considering he didn't grow up around very many but Hector and Maria seemed pretty close as far as he could tell. They didn’t smack each other around and that was enough for him. </p><p>"Mikhail." Hector grins, holding out the half smoked cigarette for Mickey to take which he does, gratefully and with a similar smile. He relaxes against the wall, letting the smoke crowd his lungs as he inhales a few times. "You look tired, mijo." He grumbles in his strong accent, brushing Mickey's shoulders playfully as if they were carrying a large weight. Mickey's always appreciated Hector's constant good mood.</p><p>"Long day at the office." He gives the cigarette back to Hector before taking a step away from the window.</p><p>There's a cool spring breeze floating in and it makes his head feel stuffy. Mickey wasn't sure what it was but the change in season's always messed with his allergies and made him feel sick to his stomach, like flu symptoms without the actual virus. </p><p>"Long day, huh? That what they call sitting on your ass at a record store?" Hector teases and Mickey gives him a slick middle finger before Hector berates him. "Anybody ever tell you to respect your elders?"</p><p>Mickey shrugs, letting the smile drip slowly from his face as he scratches at his head. </p><p>"You okay, kid?" Hector squints and for a moment, Mickey thinks that the old man can read him like a book. </p><p>"Right as rain, Hector." The younger man lifts his shoulders lazily and turns to walk the rest of the way down the hall. "Don't let Maria catch you." Mickey warns airily as he takes his keys out of his pocket to let himself inside. </p><p>"You wouldn't snitch." Hector points a short, stubby finger at the young man and Mickey nods, shooting him a wink as he steps inside, leaving the older man to kill his lungs in peace. </p><p>In the apartment, Molly's sprawled out on the couch with a bowl of cereal on her chest as she attempts to spoon it into her mouth from the awkward angle, just getting milk everywhere in the process. Her cat is perched on the back of the couch, eyes half shut, not even paying attention to whatever seems to be playing on the TV. Molly doesn't notice Mickey come in, too engrossed in the program so Mickey walks up behind her before crouching down and barking in her ear like a dog. She flinches, dropping her spoon on the floor and tipping the cereal bowl over so the milk goes down her shirt. </p><p>She doesn't speak for a moment as rage settles through her. It takes her a minute before she sits up, putting the bowl of cereal on the coffee table and turning to Mickey with anger in her green eyes. It's like watching a monster reach it's peak before it destroys an entire city but Molly is 5'2 and has the upper body strength of a baby bird so Mickey isn't too worried about the consequences. </p><p>"Do you want real food or are you just gonna eat nothing but cereal like we're in an apocalypse?" He crosses his arms and waits for her to calm down and answer him but before she has a chance, there's a knock at the door.</p><p>Mickey turns around, leaving Molly to answer it and when he does he sees Maria standing there in her bathrobe, instantly trying to peer around Mickey into the apartment like the rubberneck she is. "I heard barking, Mickey. Don't tell me you picked up another stray." </p><p>Mickey sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking up. "There's no dog, Maria. We were just messing around."</p><p>"Well if it came from the TV, you might want to consider adjusting the volume." She tightens the belt on her robe before walking back to her apartment. She gives Mickey a warning look of disapproval before disappearing. </p><p>Mickey walks back into the living room where Molly is sitting, drinking the milk out of the bowl like a cat.</p><p>“Maria needs to get laid or get a goddamn hobby." Molly mumbles, wiping her chin before leaning back against the couch where the cat is still purring and sleeping now.</p><p>It's quiet in the apartment for a moment as Mickey stretches out onto the couch beside her, propping his feet in her lap only for her to knock them down immediately. </p><p>"I'm starting to think you're a germaphobe." Mickey jokes and Molly shrugs, crossing her small arms across her chest, clearly in a mood. </p><p>"Maybe your feet just smell gross." She bites back with an unusual amount of heat and Mickey sits up in his spot, concern on his face. </p><p>"Whats up?" He asks, nudging her shoulder with his but she leans away from the touch again. "Alright, I can't play guessing games here, Moll. You need to tell me if something's wrong because if I gotta walk on eggshells, they're gonna end up breaking quick as fuck." He says, trying to gauge his sister's reaction but she just sits still, eyes concentrated on the screen in front of them. </p><p>Mickey knows Molly well and he knows that when things are big or important to her, she keeps them bottled up. She doesn't share the big things which has always driven Mickey insane but he knows she's not physically hurt so that eases his mind a little. </p><p>"Well, when you decide to share with the class..." Mickey trails off, grunting as his knees pop when he stands to go take a shower. Molly's hand darts out and grabs his, forcing him to stay in his spot in front of the couch. </p><p>"I tried to leave the building today." She says so fast Mickey almost doesn’t catch it but he does. He gets halfway to a smile before she shuts it down. "It's not like I made it very far. I just- it's not fucking easy feeling trapped and I got tired of being weak so I went down, make it halfway to the curb and all it took was some asshole on a bike to ruin it." She holds her head down as her cheeks heat up, in the same way that Mickey's tend to do. </p><p>It's a helpless feeling for Mickey to watch his sister suffer or feel pain. He did his best to drag her away from all of it and still, inside of her own head is where she hurts the most. </p><p>"Only assholes ride bikes." Mickey tries to lighten the mood and Molly rolls her eyes at him, finally letting go of his hand so that he could sit back down next to her. </p><p>She clumsily leans her head on his shoulder and he allows the small affection as he rubs her knee back and forth. </p><p>"He recognized me from the papers." She whispers and her voice drops lowly as she heaves a long sigh. "He called me a tranny." She spits the word out like it tastes weird in her mouth, like it doesn't belong there.</p><p>Mickey remembers when the story of Molly' attack had been released to the press and in Southside, that wouldn't have been a big deal. Crime happens thousands of times a day so why bother keeping track of it all but Molly had the pleasure of being a Milkovich and when people heard about that, everything exploded. People knocking on her doors, hounding Mickey's siblings for some shred of a story. Their father didn't take it well, his daughter being born a boy but Molly lived with her mother so she thankfully didn't have to put up with Terry much. When Mickey finally got in touch with her again after he'd gotten his own place, he had begged her to move in with him. Since then, Molly hadn't left the building or even talked about that day. She was strong but in the way that irritated Mickey. She always wanted to deal with everything herself. </p><p>"I don't think you're weak." Mickey's hand stills on her leg as she looks up at him through thick lashes and for a second, he sees his father's eyes in Molly.</p><p>They're broken and watery but not from alcohol and it's right there that Mickey realizes they're not his father's eyes. They're just Molly’s eyes, looking up at him, waiting for something, he just doesn't know what. He goes back to patting her knee softly and she look down at her own lap before nodding, deciding to take Mickey's word for it. </p><p>For Mickey, there's always been fear instilled in him from a young age. He hid a lot, whether it be under beds, behind locked doors, or in his own head. He hid from his father most of all. While under his father's roof, he endured countless sleepless nights and nights where he was scared he wouldn't wake up in the mornings. He was concussed more often than not but the doctor was expensive and ice packs and tylenol were cheap, according to Mandy. He spent a lot of time feeling scared and watching, waiting for old scars to heal and watching Molly, he knows that it's going to take a long time and he doesn't know if he has that time. </p><p>His mind drifts back to Ian at the store today and how hurt Ian looked when Mickey had said that he liked him too, as if that wasn't the answer he wanted. Mickey knew why, from the minute the words repeated in his head afterward. Mickey had implied that he liked Ian as a friend, and while that was true, it was also not the whole truth and even Ian knew that which was why he left the way he did. It’s scary, having someone barely know you, but know you well enough to know when you’re lying.</p><p>It started to fall into place like dominoes, clicking and following one another down the line. Mickey was scared to even admit to himself, but the way he felt about Ian was not that of a friend. </p><p>Looking away from the TV, Mickey watched the sun start to go down outside until it was almost completely dark and Molly's head was still on his shoulder, weighing him down. More than that, the secret that he's always carried around with him weighs him down more than anything. So, why not let it all go as he floats to the top, no longer weighed down by the denial his father had always instilled inside of him. </p><p>
  <em>"No son of mine is gonna be a fag. You get out of my goddamn house before I kill you." </em>
</p><p>It was one of the more fond memories he had collected of his father over the years. The sobs of Mandy at the door, begging and screaming for her dad to get off of Mickey echo in his ears years later. </p><p>
  <em>"If I ever see you near me or this house again, you're getting a bullet in the back of your head." </em>
</p><p>Mickey's palms began to sweat as he's placed right back in that house, in that year, brutalized and beat over and over again until he was begging to be put out of his misery. It was like flashes of light but instead, it was just flashes of darkness and red— blood but more importantly, it was his blood. </p><p>
  <em>"I won't have you infecting me and the rest of this family."</em>
</p><p>A movement on top of Mickey draws him out of his own head, away from the darkening sky outside. He looks down and sees Molly wrapping a blanket around them both, yawning and focusing back on the television. Molly acts as an anchor in this moment, to center Mickey and he feels safe again, back in this apartment with his sister as they watch shitty television.</p><p>So, in that respect, nothing stops the words from pouring out of his mouth. </p><p>"I'm gay." He admits to her in the striking quiet, his breath catching on the last word like he wasn't supposed to say them and his own body was trying to stop him. </p><p>Molly moves away from him and for a second, Mickey panics and his mind starts to spiral. But Molly's face doesn't twist and she doesn't move off of the couch. Instead, she grabs the cat and sits it in her lap as her head falls back on Mickey's shoulder. </p><p>"I think I am too." Molly whispers. Mickey's eyes go wide in shock and Molly scrunches her nose, sniffling sickly before she goes back to watching the TV like nothing else had happened.</p><p>The moment felt strange and almost like it wasn't real— like Mickey hadn't just come out to his sister on their couch on a Tuesday night when Mickey had been trying so hard to swallow the truth for years. It was freeing but also unreal. Molly didn't make it a big deal and Mickey was grateful for that at least. </p><p>The cat is wide awake now, stirring in Molly's lap before it shuffles over to Mickey's rutting it's head against his stomach before laying down to sleep again. Mickey's first instinct is to put it on the floor but instead, he lets his hand drop on its head as he pets it. His fingertips play with the cat's fur as silence engulfs them. </p><p>Mickey breaks it briefly to add, "That's cool."</p><p>Molly hums in acknowledgement and the siblings both lay there with one another, relaxed and free, feeling more open than they had in years. A blistering thought comes to Mickey a few moments later once he's finally chilled out but this one causes his back to tense and his eyes to sink into his skull as he rolls them in annoyance at his own stupidity. </p><p>
  <em>He had just friend-zoned Ian Gallagher. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>feel free to leave some love in the comments! thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey accepts Ian’s offer.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warning: mentions of abuse and internalized homophobia.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>March 29th, 1978; Chicago, Illinois</strong>
</p><p>Mickey had promised himself that if he had to hear Bohemian Rhapsody one more time, he would most definitely stab himself with the dull end of a lead pipe. But, according to Ian, it was one of the greatest masterpieces of all time. Considering that it was six minutes long and drug out forever, changing pitch and genre throughout the whole duration, it was starting to irritate Mickey to no end. But he found it hard to tell the younger boy to shut it off. </p><p>For whatever reason, every time Ian came around, it was like the events of the previous day were erased and they weren't discussed. Mickey was finding it hard to move on though because Ian's hand in his was seemingly all he thought about. He wanted to talk about it and see what Ian thought but every time he even got close, it was like Ian could sense it and he would excuse himself to do something else around the store. This routine had continued on until it was nearly closing time and Ray was coming through with paychecks for the week. </p><p>"Don't spend it all at some strip club." He jokes as he hands Ian his to which the redheaded man gives him a blanched smile. "As for you..." He trails off, withholding the small envelope from Mickey as soon as he tries to reach out for it. </p><p>"Yeah, no drugs or whatever." Mickey finishes the sentence for the older man who gives him a smug grin and his check. </p><p>"Not even weed?" Ian asks in shock and Ray slowly turns to him with furrowed brows. "So, no weed. Got it." Ian answers his own question with a twinge of fear in his voice. </p><p>Ray leaves for the day, giving his speech about locking up and walking home safely and for the first time all day, Ian and Mickey are completely alone. There's a noticeable shift in the air at Ray's departure but Ian doesn't seem to acknowledge it as he disappears for a moment and comes back out with his thin gray jacket in one hand and a wrapped gift in the other. </p><p>"Finally got around to wrapping Lip's gift." He makes conversation and it's a slow attempt— leaving Mickey with no other choice but to nod, distracting himself with a pen in his hand. "We're having a party for his birthday tonight. You should come." Ian says, little to no hope in his voice considering Mickey has shot him down every other time he's invited him out. </p><p>And Mickey knows that. He knows he has a track record for being cold and a recluse but he figures if there's ever a time to change any of that, it would be now, despite the fact that the last thing he wants to do is hang out with the Gallaghers who probably only know of Mickey because of his own family. Mickey sees the green in Ian's eyes sparkle just the right amount and suddenly he's speaking before he can stop. </p><p>"I'll come." Mickey says, shocking them both, Ian more so than Mickey. </p><p>Ian clears his throat, tilting his head in shock before walking a little closer to the counter. "You're serious?"</p><p>"Yeah, I'll go. It'll give me a chance to catch up with Lipschwitz." Mickey jokes and he watches Ian's face fall just a fraction before he recovers, a big smile working it's way through the freckles. </p><p>Ian's fingers brush Mickey skin as he grabs at the pen in his hand causing a jolt of electricity to run between them. Mickey watches the pen work on the back of a receipt as Ian writes down an address. Mickey sees North Wallace in-scripted underneath the nervous, shaky chicken scratch of Ian's handwriting and he remembers the street well. One of his friends from high school lived over there and that's where he crashed for the better part of '73 right when Terry had rained hellfire on his life. </p><p>"It should start around seven but knowing everyone, probably closer to nine." Ian laughs, looking up at Mickey's flushed face. </p><p>Mickey allows a hand to run through his hair for a moment before he nods. "Nine." Mickey mumbles, catching the receipt under his palm as Ian backs away and leaves the store. </p><p>Mickey could swear he saw a skip in the younger man's step as he rounded the corner and left the block. It doesn't register with Mickey until he's halfway through with closing that Ian completely left him to do all the work. But, then he's reminded that he's going to see Ian outside of work for the first time and he feels better about the fact. </p><p>He's never seen Ian outside of work unless it was for a smoke break out on the sidewalk or in the back alley. With Ian, Mickey could always sense a lot of tension between them that seemed unbreakable more than anything. It felt like it would always be there, surrounding them like a bubble—invading their conversations. It felt chemical. It had been there for so long and so often that it was normal at this point and maybe Mickey had grown to like the tension he felt around the man. Mickey no longer had the urge to fight it or hate himself for it because who was he fooling? He might as well embrace it or die— metaphorically so to speak. </p><p>Admitting his sexuality out loud to Molly was somewhat of a weight off of his chest considering he had spent the last odd years of his life convincing everyone around him that he was normal. He was straight. He liked women. The first couple of years after Mickey found out he was possibly gay was rocky. He started acting out sexually, bringing girls over on broad daylight on purpose just to show everyone he liked women. He couldn't get it up unless he thought about Clint Eastwood in <em>Paint Your Wagon </em>which was a dead giveaway to himself. The girls for the most part were nice about his dysfunctional sensuality. They were patient with him even though he was a jackass about it, yelling for them to get out and leave every time he underperformed.</p><p>This cycle went on for a while until Mickey had gotten out of the juvie for the third time where he had experimented a little with the other guys inside and that's when it all went to shit. Mickey had made the mistake of bringing a guy home from school where his older brother Collin had found them and consequently snitched to his father about it the next morning. Mickey didn't make it to school that day because instead, he was in the hospital being pumped full of antibiotics and food via a tube down his throat. He was sloppy and he felt that he deserved the beating for some twisted reason.</p><p>When he was in the hospital, Mickey thought a lot about his mother and what she would say if she was there. The thought didn't last long because it was pointless to wish and think anyway. When Mickey got home from the hospital his father proceeded to beat him again within an inch of his life after he set everything Mickey owned on fire in the yard.</p><p>In the end, it was Mandy who dragged Mickey out of the pile of his own blood and drove him to the train station where she handed him a bag of clothes and all the money she had on her. Mickey hadn't seen her look so sad since the day their mother left. He wondered how he must've looked to her in that moment. </p><p>
  <em>"Don't come back here, Mickey. Please." She looked so small when she begged, Mickey thought. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>All he could do was nod at his sister and even that hurt. The shaking of his head gave him a migraine. "Promise me you'll call." There's tears in her eyes and Mickey reaches up to wipe them but she smacks his hand away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Mickey, please." So he nods again despite the pain and backs away from her before there's a chance for anything else to be said. He walks down the platform to the train and heads south away from his old life.</em>
</p><p>Mickey didn't call for a while after that. He couldn't face her or anyone for that matter. </p><p>He found a group of friends on the streets who fit his interests, or at least so he thought. He lost those friends when he went to prison and then moved in with Ray. In all actuality it wasn’t a huge loss. After Ray, there wasn't a bright side but it was better than where he was living. He had a job, a place to stay, warm food and clothes on his back. The only person Mickey had for a while was himself so it took a lot to let Ray in and become a figure in his life. </p><p>Mickey couldn't tell you much about the day he almost died because his memory became spotty after so many blows to the head. He remembers the words everyone spoke and how much they hurt. He remembers the feeling of shame and the pain in his ribs that were broken from being kicked. He remembers hating himself most of all after all of it. </p><p>When Mickey healed and got better, he started attended a program at the church for people like him, looking to get better. He had seen a flyer near the record store and went for a while. It was a low point but some small part of him had hope that maybe if he could go back to being normal, he could go home. Mickey just wanted to go home at first. He was exhausted. The program took a turn for the worst when Mickey realized there was no getting better so he mainly just tried to avoid having impure thoughts. And everything worked and fell into place until Ian Gallagher came along and changed it for him.</p><p>Mickey couldn't decide if he was happy about it or not and on top of that, he wasn't even sure Ian was gay. He was barely starting to accept that he himself could be gay. It's possible that everything from the last few weeks was all in Mickey's head. If Mickey was honest, he wasn't exactly sure if he wanted anything from Ian. Admitting he was gay was one thing, but putting it to work and doing something with it was another thing entirely. Mickey was walking a fine line and had a lot of questions for himself that he couldn't answer. He just hoped the whole thing wouldn't blow up in his face before it even started properly.  </p>
<hr/><p>Mickey needed a shower before he headed anywhere but of course, today would be the day that he only had cold water in the apartment. A cold shower was probably smart anyway to relieve some of the built up tension in his muscles. His shoulders rolled against the pelting pressure of the water as he scrubbed himself down, skin turning bright red in the process. He allows himself a few seconds of peace before he hops out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. </p><p>The apartment is freezing cold as he shuts the door to his bedroom and searches for something to wear. Normally, he would just put on whatever was in the floor but for some reason, he feels weird not dressing up. Something inside of his head tells him that it's the Gallaghers. They're just as Southside as everyone else in the neighborhood but flashes of Fiona Gallagher slamming the door in Salvation Army's faces when they offered the family free clothes plays in his mind vividly. There's warped visions of the kids riding new bikes in the winter and Lip showing up to their smoke sessions under the bleachers wearing new jeans and shoes with no holes in them. </p><p>The Gallaghers may have always been Southside, but they took care of their own. They didn't adopt the 'every man for themselves' mantra like most families in the neighborhood did—like Mickey's family did. A lot of families did it to survive but the Gallaghers seemed to use each other to survive which is something that Mickey will never understand or experience. He never had somebody to fully lean on except Molly and Ray.</p><p>So, with a tight chest and hands full of nerves, Mickey picks up a clean flannel and light jeans from the laundered pile of clothes in his floor. He walks out into the living room where Molly is sitting on the couch with the cat she has still yet to name which irritates Mickey beyond all meaning. </p><p>"I'm headed to the Gallaghers. You wanna come?" He attempts. Molly's head doesn't turn towards him nor does she make any move to speak. Ever since their conversation, Molly has been slow to open up which is understandable, at least to Mickey. He knows a lot about shutting down emotionally and that he doesn't have the patented seal on it. "Alright, I shouldn't be gone all night." He walks up behind the couch and lays a hand on the crown of her head, squeezing slightly before letting go. </p><p>"Gallaghers?" Molly asks in a whisper so small that in Mickey's spot by the door, he could barely hear it. </p><p>"Yeah, big family kinda like a cult. You mightta heard of them around the neighborhood." Mickey jokes, reaching for his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter before walking back over to the couch where Molly has finally turned around to look at him. </p><p>Her eyes trail softly around the room that she's been staring at for the last several months. "I'll go." She nods, her voice shaking slightly. </p><p>Mickey bites back a grin as he shrugs his shoulders, gesturing for her to go get ready. She hops off the couch, her eyes cast to the floor as she walks into her room and shut the door with a click. Mickey almost punches the air once before peaking back at her door to make sure he's still alone. A movement by the couch draws his attention and he sees the cat perches on the arm, head tilted in curiosity. </p><p>"Don't look at me like that." He squints at the furry black animal who just continues to stay seated, staring right back at the man in front of her.</p><p>Molly comes back out in a flared pair of jeans that Mickey's never seen her wear before and a button up vest that goes all the way to her neckline. She scratches the cats head before walking past Mickey and out the door with her head tilted high in pride. </p><p>Mickey doesn't comment on it as he follows her out and down the stairs. The clicking of their boots echoes but that's the only noise that happens between them until they walk through the lobby and into the nightlife of Chicago together. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lip comes home but its not a warm welcome.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is somewhat of a filler chapter for Lip because he's someone who i hold near to my heart and i feel as though for that, he deserves a backstory where he is the focus for a moment.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <strong><span class="s1">1965; Chicago Illinois</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From the time Lip Gallagher was familiarized with the word ‘sacrifice’, it was already hard wired into his system to watch out for his younger siblings. He was taught that since you’re older, you go without so that they can survive. Their air is more essential and their food is of greater value than yours. He learned this from his older sister, Fiona. She was the perfect picture of a martyr and Lip could go a few days without a meal, no problem. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Lip turned 10, Frank had lost his job for the third time that year and they were forced to sleep in a van parked under the El train tracks. The winters were cold and resources were few so instead of a blanket, he curled a little tighter in on himself each night and listened to the teeth chattering of his other siblings until one night the world seemed to stop turning when Ian fell sick. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Hold his hand, Lip. Nice and tight.” Fiona called out to Lip as they walked as far as they could on foot. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It was the middle of the night and Ian was burning up again but Frank was missing for the third time this month. Fiona needed to find medicine but all of the stores were dead and Lip wanted to say something but with his parents practically checked out, Fiona was the adult. With a few bills clutched in her tiny hands, Fiona stomped down the block, her brothers trailing a few feet behind. Fiona, while being 13 years old at the time, and Lip being 10, knew that this would not be the last time that they would be in charge of their brother's well being. The only relief they collectively had was that Debbie and Carl slept soundly as they stayed behind at the van as Fiona dragged Lip with her to take Ian out for medicine.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Fiona.” Lip whimpered, feeling the cold breeze kick up again. His legs shook and the skin on his face was numb from frostbite. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Just a few more blocks, Lip.” She encouraged, only looking back briefly to make sure Ian was still upright. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The small sickly child was being dragged along the pavement, his heels scuffing and stopping every so often while Lip did his best to hold him up by the collar of his thin jacket. There was snot coming out of his nose and Lip could tell by the way his eyes drooped that it wouldn’t be long now before he passed out. His lips were a dark shade of blue, almost purple. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Fuck, shit.” Fiona swore a few feet up ahead as her last resort was closed for the night. Her hands smacked the glass in irritation as a few strands of hair fell in her face. Tears were threatening to spill over and the only sound on the street was Ian’s heavy breathing. His lungs were giving out and the nearest clinic was miles the other way but Fiona had selfishly thought some medicine at the store could fix it. No need in dragging the kids into a hectic clinic at four in the morning. She also didn’t want the social worker being called again in which case they’d be inevitably split up. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Fiona.” Lip called out from where he was now sat resting on the pavement, Ian’s head in his lap. “He won’t wake up.” He panted, rubbing the shaggy red hair away from the younger boy’s blotched face. Ian’s heartbeat was pounding in his own ears but he couldn’t find it in himself to open his eyes— to tell them that he was alive. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Fiona rushed over, skidding on her knees to press her fingers to her youngest brother’s neck. It was something that she had learned from her father when he was passed out, nearly dead in the street, most nights. The pulse was faint but it didn’t relieve her like she hoped it would.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“He’s alive. He’s o-okay.” She stuttered out, rubbing at his burnt cheeks softly. She looked at the boy she vowed to care for and saw how she had royally screwed up. Ian got sick often and each time, she tried to find an easier solution. The clinic was always crawling with drug addicts and alcoholics, drunk off their asses. It was no place for a kid, much less three kids. That's what Fiona was. She was still a kid. She just never got to feel like one for very long. Lip often shared this burden.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“For how long?” Lip bites back in a small voice and when Fiona looks at him, she sees a lot of Frank behind the blue eyes and shaggy brown hair and she wishes she hadn’t. She sees the disapproving look on Lip’s face and it churns her stomach the same way her father’s does. She’s not sure how an utter disappointment like Frank can still make her feel two inches tall, but he always manages and Lip is giving her the same look. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“The store should open soon.” She promises. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Lip shakes his head, looking at his sick brother in his arms. “We should go to the clinic. He needs a real doctor.” His voice gets lost in his throat but Fiona hears him and she knows that he’s right. Ian, the sickest of the bunch hadn't eaten in weeks and she could feel the bones in his shoulders when she rubbed them. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">His collarbone was sharp, sticking out over the neckline of thin sweatshirt she had stolen from a kid at school. If they stay out here in the cold, waiting for the store, Ian could die and though Fiona regrets a lot— being born one of those things, she won't add letting her brother die to that list. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">So, she nods, more hair getting caught in front of her face as she misters up the strength in her bony arms to lift her youngest brother. She cradles him, jostling him slightly to make sure her grasp is tight. His head falls to her chest and she can feel his warm breath through the material of her jacket.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">She jerks her head to get Lip's attention. “Let’s go while we have time.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Lip shakily stands beside her and they start walking toward the clinic with as much speed as they can. They’re exhausted, barely slept properly in months and their muscles are weak and brittle from not having a meal in days. Ian’s hand falls in between them and Lip watches it swing limply back and forth before he grabs it, making sure the grip on his younger brother’s hand is unbreakable. Lip's skin is already pale but it scares him how dark it looks compared to the skin of his brother's hand in contrast. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Nice and tight, Lip. Don’t let him go.” Fiona says, shaking her head to get the hair out of her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">They cross the street and walk past a group of people huddled around an on fire trash can to stay warm. Their clothes have holes in them and they pass around a bottle of booze to stay warm. Lip almost sees himself there in future for a minute before he feels a tug on his hand bringing him back.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He looks up and sees Ian’s green eyes staring weakly right back at him and there’s a small smile pulling up on his cheeks. “Lip.” The smaller boy mumbles. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I’m here.” He assures Ian in a tough voice but he knows it sounds broken. “Always here.” </span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s2">Ian closes his eyes and nods his head once before letting it rest on Fiona’s chest again. Fiona keeps the pace fast, her hip knocking Lip’s shoulder every so often but it keeps him in check. That and the occasional squeeze on his hand from Ian to assure him he’s still alive. </span> <span class="s2">They make it to the clinic nearly an hour later. Ian is barely alive by the time the nurses get a hold of him and they ask why Ian has been sick so much. </span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Fiona answers all the questions and when the social worker inevitably arrives, she hands them all a trash bag full of clothes and tells them the homes they’ll be staying at are nice. The doctor says that Ian has to stay for further testing and treatment and after that he’ll be placed in a home in Northside with a “kind” foster family. She also says that Fiona and Lip must leave tonight to get set up at their own group home. The woman’s brows are set in a furrow and Fiona looks away towards her brothers as they sleep, and she knows she has to do what’s best for them.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I can give you another hour with your brother.” She smiles sadly at the small girl who nods anyway, feeling a lump clog her throat.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Around an hour later, Fiona now sits on the edge of Ian's bed, their foster paperwork tucked under her frail arms as she rubs his leg through the sheet. Lip, half asleep, holds his own hand, humming softly as Ian finally tries to wake up. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Lip. Fiona.” Ian mumbles sleepily, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. His arm yanks at the IV and he winces. Fiona leans forward and works carefully to pull it out, making sure the tape covers the broken skin from the needle. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I’m here. Always.” Lip repeats his words, feeling his voice get wet but he tightens his jaw and tilts his chin up to appear stronger than he is. Ian nods softly, gunning his eyes back and forth between the two figures. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Can we leave now?” Ian asks, his cheeks already wet from tears. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah, we can leave.” Fiona says before she hops off the bed, grabbing his clothes from the counter by the door, helping him get dressed quickly. She heaves the trash bag of clothes over her shoulder like a sack of toys and they all huddle by the door, watching and waiting for the nurses to change shifts. They form a chain link with their hands as they walk down the hall and outside into the cold air. They pass a trashcan on the way out and Fiona tosses their foster paperwork in unceremoniously without another thought. She’s not sure she made the right choice, but she knew she couldn’t lose them. This wasn't the first time they had slipped through the cracks of Family Services's custody and no doubt that it would be the last.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">They stumble on the asphalt and pull their clothes tighter around each other as they hustle through the near crowded streets of the city. It’s bright morning now and the sun is out by the time they reach the van under the tracks. Lip squints behind the wind to see Frank sprawled out in the gravel, using his jean jacket as a pillow. Lip groans, stopping before the body. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">"Just leave him, buddy." Fiona rubs his shoulder but he shrugs her off, feeling anger at the man for doing so little. He waits for Fiona to get Ian inside with the others and shuts the door loudly which causes his father to jump before sinking back down into the fetal position. He mumbles something incoherently but passes back out as he quick as he woke. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Get up.” Lip whispers in exhaustion, kicking his side. He doesn’t flinch or move from his sleep and that angers him. He’s always unbothered no matter what chaos is in front of his eyes. “Dad, please!” He roars, finally having enough. He kicks him harder, taking all of his frustrations of the night out on the slumped alcoholic below him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">After getting nowhere, he steps away from the passed-out man disguised as his caretaker, opening the passenger door of the van to grab his only pillow. He quickly swaps it out with the jean jacket he's using, placing it under his head for comfort. The scruff on his beard is turning a gray color from age and there’s bile stuck in it from before he passed out, but he ignores it as he spreads the jacket over his top half, creating a small blanket. He knows that this is his future, he has no other choice but to see it that way. His mother used to tell him all the time how much like his father he was but for Monica, he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. His father wasn't always a battered drunk but instead he was the bright picture of a college student majoring in business management with a near perfect IQ who fell in love with a reckless woman. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Goodnight, dad.” Lip stands tall—or as tall as the four feet of height he possesses will allow—jutting his chin out and walking back to the van to find everyone is already asleep, snoring in the back. He watches Ian's chest specifically in fear, making sure it moves up and down carefully. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The van is freezing cold as he stumbles around the smaller kids to claim his thin sleeping bag beside Ian who wiggles uncomfortably from the metal flooring underneath them. His eyes pry open just a fraction, recognizing his brother through the hazy vision.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Lip.” Ian mumbles sleepily, rubbing his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I’m here. Always.” Lip repeats, feeling his voice get wet but he tightens his jaw and tilts his chin up to appear stronger than he is. Ian nods, placing his arm on his brother's chest as he falls asleep, feeling Lip's heart beat in time with his breathing. He grabs the limp freckled hand and laces their fingers together and he prays that one day, they won't have to live like this. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">In that moment, Lip knows that he will always be there for his brother, holding him nice and tight.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p3">
  <strong>March 29th, 1978; Chicago Illinois</strong>
</p><p class="p3">Southside looks different as Lip steps out of the cab that picked him up from the airport. There's flashes of visions of him riding his bike up and down the block or he and siblings dragging their patriarch in from the yard after a long night of drinking. He can almost feel the sting of an open palm slapping him for talking back and he rubs his cheek absently, the phantom pain hurting more than it should. He knows that he hasn't been home in a while and he wishes that the excuses he used were true but they weren't.</p><p class="p3">
  <em>"Sorry, I have exams."</em>
</p><p class="p3">
  <em>"I can't make it. I'm working on a big case."</em>
</p><p class="p3">They weren't nearly as true. He just couldn't find it in himself to go home after everything. When he finally got out, he promised that he'd stay out. Southside left a bad taste in his mouth for so long and when he'd finally manged to wash it out, it was like home came calling him back again. When he'd bought the plane ticket, it stayed on his fridge for weeks as he debated burning it, making up some excuse that he'd lost it so he couldn't come.</p><p class="p3">But he knew his phone calls were getting few and far between and Fiona was hounding him about family meaning everything to which he responded, "What family?" </p><p class="p3">He knew it was a low blow and that Fiona had done everything to make sure they stayed together. A part of Lip sometimes wished that the social workers had taken them and he always felt horrible for that part. Fiona always tried, he'd give her that. Her batting average for success was small but she always tried. She had done more than enough and there was even a time where he recalls himself begging her to get out and leave just as he did but there was always the youngest siblings to worry about even though most of them were old enough to care for themselves. Hell, Lip was a full fledged adult by the time he was eight or nine. But, the younger kids had it easiest with Fiona around and Lip supposed it was better that way. No sense in growing up any faster than you had to. </p><p class="p3">When Lip left for college, Fiona practically pushed him out the door. She scraped up the money for his plane ticket and packed his bags. She borrowed a car from a friend at work and drove him to the airport alone while everyone else in the house slept one morning. She said that he wouldn't leave unless she dragged him by his hair and he knew she was right. If everyone had come along that day to the airport, Lip would've made an excuse like he always did to stay. So, a part of him is grateful for that, but another part never forgave her. </p><p class="p3">His hand moves down to his wrist to rub at the expensive custom watch there. He knows he probably should’ve left it at home back in California because in this neighborhood he’d probably get rolled for it or possibly even beaten. His boss had given it to him as a promotional gift when he assisted in his first big case a few months back. It’s a reminder of his success but as he stands here in front of his run down childhood home, feeling like he betrayed his lifestyle, it feels more like a reminder of his failures.</p><p class="p3">His shoes are polished cleanly and his suit is pressed and ironed even after a 15 hour plane ride. He didn’t have time to change out as he went straight from work to the airport and now he stands in Southside looking like he doesn’t belong. He was always told as a kid that he was smarter and better than the hood and for a minute there, he started to believe it until he got out and began to notice that he was no better than anyone else he grew up with up. He would always be a product of his childhood— <em>Southside forever.</em></p><p class="p3">The cold metal of the watch under his fingertips eases the tension in his muscles for just a moment before his siblings are bounding out of the house, one by one, screaming his name at the top of their lungs. He opens his arms for them, painting on a smile for a moment as their warmth collides with his. Different smells and scents overwhelm him as he closes his eyes to take it all in. </p><p class="p3">"What’s with the suit?”</p><p class="p3">"How's California?"</p><p class="p3">"You meet any famous people yet?" </p><p class="p3">The questions fire at him rapidly and he doesn't have time to answer them before Fiona is pulling them off, scolding them for basically tackling their older brother to the ground. "Calm down." She shouts, bringing Lip into a one armed hug, leading him away from the pack and up the creaky stairs of his childhood home. </p><p class="p3">There's mindless chatter behind him as Fiona leans into him, welcoming him home with a wet kiss on the temple which he doesn't wipe away. </p><p class="p3">"Welcome home, All-star." She mumbles, squeezing his shoulder extra tight. The nickname sounds backhanded and makes him feel queasy but he forces a closed smile anyway and hugs her back, trying to push the feeling away. He's barely up the steps before a voice calls out to him from the street, causing him to turn around.</p><p class="p3">Ian is running down the block with his hands full but everything drops in the yard as they race to each other, chests pounding as they embrace. Ian towers over him by half a foot and his arms are bigger as they wrap around Lip's entire body, hoisting him up slightly. His big little brother shakes in his arms a little at the reunion and Lip tightens his hold around his neck, rubbing the skin there. </p><p class="p3">"I got you, man." Lip soothes him, feeling Ian sway in his arms as he sniffles. </p><p class="p3">"I just missed you." Ian says into his brother's shoulder and Lip pats him once on the back for good measure before breaking the hug to look at the younger man. Ian has a little bit of stubble on his chin and he's grown a few inches which makes Lip jealous because he stopped sprouting when he was fifteen. His little brother is a grown man now with muscles and height but the way his chin wobbles when he's trying not to cry us still the same as it's always been. That hasn't changed at all. </p><p class="p3">"I'm here." Lip mumbles, pulling Ian back into his chest as they hug for another moment, Fiona ushering the kids inside to give them a minute. "Always." He chokes, inhaling the familiar scent of his brother as the wind catches, taking the word with it. Ian nods, tightening his arms as he shuffles his body closer, their chests slammed against one another as if there's glue holding them together.</p><p class="p3">Lip ignores everything else in the background and just focuses on holding his brother, nice and tight—never letting him go. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey realizes he’s a dumbass.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning: mention of childhood abuse and homophobic terms.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mickey walked up to the Gallagher house with his hands shoved in his pockets and stood by the mailbox as chatter and music came from inside. The way he shrunk in on himself made him look like a kid waiting anxiously to get picked for kickball. Molly was kicking her feet into the grass beside him, her eyes sketching out around the neighborhood. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Well, no one has fag bashed us yet.” She laughs, just trying to brighten the mood which helps. Mickey feels the tension in his chest dissipate slowly. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“That’s a start.” He huffs, blowing air out of his nose in the process. Mickey hadn't been back to the rural areas of Southside since he was kicked out by Terry and he didn’t think he’d make that exception for a birthday party but here he was, the night setting in on he and Molly as they stand unmoving from the sidewalk. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Molly must have been able to sense his nerves over her own because she nudges his shoulder with hers. “Are we going to the party or not?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Mickey shrugs in response because really, the walk here felt like a marathon. He was winded emotionally and physically, his legs felt like jelly. He wasn’t sure if if was because he left the city for the first time in years or maybe because he was nervous about seeing Ian in a different setting. He didn’t have time to figure it out though because the door opened and a lanky woman with brown hair stood in the way with her hands on her hips. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Who are you?” She yells, her face set in a frown. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Mickey doesn’t have the chance to find his bearings so Molly answers instead. “We were invited.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“By who?” The woman asks, crossing her arms and Mickey finally recognizes her as Fiona Gallagher. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Ian!” Mickey yells, hearing the pitch in his own voice grow higher. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Fiona disappears from the door, yelling after Ian who appears a second layer hanging onto the wall to stay upright. “Mickey!” He shouts, eyes darting between the smaller man and Molly. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Mickey gets his second wind and walks the rest of the way up the sidewalk and past the open gate where he stops in front of the steps. He notices Ian swaying a little in his spot and his eyes are squinted lazily. “You start without me, Gallagher?” Mickey laughs at the way Ian pouts and looks down at the red cup in his hand. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Oh!” His eyes widen just a fraction and he moves out of the door to let Mickey through. “Yeah, well you’re late.” He smirks gesturing for Mickey to come inside. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Mickey makes his way up the wooden stairs, Molly trailing behind him carefully. “This is Molly.” Mickey gives the short introduction and Ian strains his neck to look past the smaller man to greet her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I’m Ian. I work with Mickey.” He holds his hand out and Molly watches his smile widen before she takes it, his grip strong in hers. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Molly.” She says plainly, not knowing what else to say in response. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah, you’re Molly, you’re Ian. Are we drinking or what?” Mickey says impatiently and Ian nods quickly, moving through the crowded living room into the kitchen where he comes back out with two more red cups in his hands. Ian hands them off to Molly and Mickey and Mickey can feel the warm beer in his palm already. It’s comforting and it sort of grounds him, giving him something else to look at besides Ian’s flushed red face and glossy pink lips.</span>
</p><p class="p2">Mickey takes a look around to see if he can spot anyone familiar to him. There are a few people their age but mostly it’s just younger kids and some adults he couldn’t place in a lineup if you asked him to. He recognizes a bartender from a shifty bar he used to frequent at but he’s still unsure about the others. Ian floats around, offering hugs and high fives to people as he guides Mickey through the small, crowded room. </p><p class="p2">“Did you guys make it here okay?” Ian leans against the wall separating the living room and the kitchen and Mickey finds himself scanning his body, watching how his lean legs cross at the ankle.</p><p class="p2">”Sure, sure.” Mickey mused. “We got to watch a homeless man trip a bunch of people underneath the train tracks before pick-pocketing their wallets.” He scans back up to Ian’s face to see a smile playing on his lips. Mickey has to look away and back down at his cup to stop from smiling back.</p><p class="p2">"How does that work?" Ian shakes his head and a strand of hair falls in front of his eyes in the process. Mickey fights the urge to reach out and move it but Ian looks unfazed by it and with the sweat collecting on his forehead, the look sort of suits him. </p><p class="p2">"He trips them, acts like he's helping them up, and then steals their wallets." Mickey explains, taking a sip of the warm alcohol after. It floats down his throat seamlessly and sends warmth through his blood which works to calm his nerves. Standing in front of Ian outside of work feels odd and there's potentially so much that could go wrong. Someone here from his old neighborhood could recognize him or he could drink too much and make a giant fool of himself. Molly's close presence also works to make him feel better. </p><p class="p2">"Jesus fucking Christ." Ian mutters, swallowing the last of his cup before tossing it on the floor. Mickey gives him a raised eyebrow in response at the blatant show of littering. "Fiona makes the younger ones go around every hour with a trash bag, it's fine." He waves Mickey off and the older man shrugs, finishing his drink too but keeping the empty cup in his hand anyway, feeling weird about throwing it down. </p><p class="p2">Mickey and Ian don't get any further in their conversation because a shorter man more so around Mickey's height wanders over to their huddled group. His dress shirt is untucked from his pants and his tie is undone. He looks like he came straight from a nine to five office job. The more Mickey squints, the clearer it becomes that this is Lip Gallagher, the lost Gallagher. He had gotten out of Southside after taking three semesters to graduate high school due to truancy. His hair is shorter and his crooked nose is straightened now, making his face seem far more symmetrical. He leans one hand on Ian's shoulder and mumbles incoherently into his ear to which Ian smacks the back of his head and scowls. </p><p class="p2">"Whoa, Mickey?" Lip gasps, taking a step back and widening his sunken eyes. </p><p class="p2">"Yeah, how many of me are you seeing right now?" Mickey asks, waving a hand in front of Lip's face. </p><p class="p2">Lip smacks his hand away and nearly falls backwards into the door frame at the sudden movement. "Like two or three." He slurs, a small giggle rising in the back of his throat.</p><p class="p2">Mickey finds comfort in the sense that Lip is fucked up and seems like the same asshole he used to smoke with. Some part of Mickey thought that going to a fancy college would've made Lip uppity or unpleasant. </p><p class="p2">"And who is this?" Lip asks, red rimmed eyes darting back and forth between Mickey and Molly expecting an introduction so Mickey grants him one, figuring that Lip is harmless enough. </p><p class="p2">"This is Molly." He gestures to the shrinking blonde girl behind him who waves, hiding half of her face behind her full plastic cup. Lip nods, smiling as well as he can before his face drops back into a pout. </p><p class="p2">"You smoking with me?" He asks Ian who shakes his head, wiping a large hand down his face in frustration at his brother’s state.</p><p class="p2">"No, not tonight."</p><p class="p2">"Boo." Lip yells, leaning back against the fridge as he pulls a joint out of his pocket. "What about you, Mickey?" He waves it between the two of them and Mickey shrugs, figuring that if he's here, he might as well crossfade and relax. It's not like he'll get that many opportunities to let loose. </p><p class="p2">"You want to come?" He asks his sister who looks panicked by the idea of smoking but before she can answer, Ian butts in. </p><p class="p2">"We're good here." He smiles between Mickey and Lip who look at each other and shrug with the mentality that this just leaves more for them. Mickey chances a look at Molly to make sure she's okay but she gives him a smile and he's too buzzed from the alcohol and the close presence of Ian to press any further. Ian seems like a nice guy and for what it's worth, Mickey feels like he can actually trust him so he leaves the intimacy of their group to follow Lip. He tosses his empty cup on a trash can on his way out.</p><p class="p2">The kitchen is hot and moist as they slip through to the back porch, each taking a seat on the stoop. Mickey places himself on one step below Lip who lights up, inhaling the smoke before passing the lit joint along to Mickey who accepts fully. There's crackling silence, almost like electricity before Lip finally breaks it after a few minutes. </p><p class="p2">"I heard you moved out." He converses, his fingers playing with the damp paper on the edge of the joint where their spit has been collecting. </p><p class="p2">Mickey nods plainly, feeling the tension from the day float away with the smoke. "Five years ago."</p><p class="p2">Lip looks down at his shoes, scuffing them back and forth on the wood of the deck. "Looks like we both got out, huh?"</p><p class="p2">For Lip, getting out was probably the best thing to happen to him but for Mickey, getting out was a means of survival. Shit, for all Mickey knew it could’ve been about survival for Lip too. For Mickey, it was essential— literally life or death. He didn’t have a choice if he wanted to continue breathing without a tube down his throat.</p><p class="p2">"Yeah, but at least yours was your choice." Mickey snarks at Lip whose eyes widen slightly before they harden. In all honesty, Mickey's not sure what possessed him to say it but it's out there now. </p><p class="p2">"What makes you think I had a choice?" He asks, taking another hit off of the joint before passing it to Mickey who accepts. He eyes it carefully, watching the way the fire buds before taking a hit. His cheeks hollow out and he feels the smoke melt into his lungs. </p><p class="p2">"You saying you didn't?"</p><p class="p2">"No." Lip is quick to say. He hunches forward just an inch so he's closer to Mickey on the bottom step. "I'm just saying sometimes things are a lot more complicated than you think." He decides on saying and Mickey nods, fully agreeing with that because if anyone understood complicated, it was Mickey. It's silent for a split second before Lip opens his giant mouth again, interrupting Mickey's peace. "You wanna tell me why you <em>didn't</em> have a choice or are we keeping secrets now?"</p><p class="p2">Mickey shakes his head, handing the roach to Lip. "It ain't that easy."</p><p class="p2">"Talking?"</p><p class="p2">"Yeah."</p><p class="p2">Lip must wordlessly agree because they don't talk anymore after that for a few minutes. The crickets are harmonizing in the spring night and if you focus just enough, you could even make out some stars in the sky or that might just be Mickey's shitty's vision from the alcohol and weed he just consumed. It's pretty tight stuff as far as Mickey knows and Lip seems far more gone than Mickey has ever been in his entire lifetime. It makes him wonder why Lip is getting so trashed on his first night home. </p><p class="p2">"You wanna tell me why you're fucked off your ass right now or are we keeping secrets?" Micky repeats Lip’s words sarcastically, playing with a frayed thread on the knee of his jeans. </p><p class="p2">From what he remembers about Lip, he was an arrogant asshole who smiled a lot and smoked a lot. He came from a fucked up family similar to Mickey's but then again, not really. His family was more of a family than Mickey's could ever hope to be. And that was written all over Lip's face everyday. But now the more he looks at Lip, he sees shreds of the old him have gone missing and it's scary as fuck. Mickey always assumed that Lip was lucky, that he left and got his life together but looking at him now, it's clear that Lip had left and lost parts of himself that he's desperately tried to find in the bottom of every bottle he drank. The word “alcoholic” might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. </p><p class="p2">"Life is hard, Milkovich. Life is very hard." Lip mumbles tiredly, leaning his head on the railing. </p><p class="p2">"Don't I fucking know it. It doesn't explain to me why you're drinking so much and smoking out here with me when you should be having fun with your family." Mickey points out, feeling his head grow cloudy with every word he tries to enunciate. </p><p class="p2">"Life is rife with questions that baffle." Lip supplies and he ends up snickering towards the end of it like it’s a private joke only for himself. Mickey has always known Lip to be smart— the smartest person he knows. So, it’s weird to see Lip making such dumb choices.</p><p class="p2">"You are baked." Mickey observes, taking the roach from Lip's hand and stubbing the joint out. Lip whines, closing his eyes and banging his head against the railing in frustration. </p><p class="p2">"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Lip whispers, opening his eyes and finding Mickey's in the pitch black. Lip's eyes are a brighter blue than Mickey's and they glow in the dark, especially when they're rimmed with red and tears. His throat is wet when he speaks and Mickey feels a touch uncomfortable but he doesn't comment on it. "I was supposed to get out and make a better life so that when I came back, I could make everything good for them." He admits and when Mickey doesn't speak, he continues. "I was supposed to be the fucking golden goose but instead I'm the bad egg who lies so he doesn’t have to come home and deal." </p><p class="p2">"That's not your job, m-." </p><p class="p2">"It is, though. It is." Lip nods to himself, running a limp hand down his face. "You see very many opportunities for them out here in Southside? Because I fucking don't. You wanna know what Debbie asked me earlier?" Lip's entire face is red and he hasn't taken a second to breath in what looks like years. "She asked me if she could go back west with me after she graduated and I didn't know how to tell her no. Because, I am the one who is supposed to make everything better."</p><p class="p2">"Why wouldn't you want her to go back with you?" Mickey asks, confused. When the opportunity for Molly to move in with him arose, he jumped at it. She's his family and she needed him so he cleared the spare bedroom and moved her in. </p><p class="p2">"Because I am so tired of sacrificing." He groans, pulling at the roots of his hair. "I have spent my entire life giving up everything I have ever had and I'm tired of it. In California, I have my own apartment, I have a job, and I have a good life. No one there knows the poor little Lip from Southside, Chicago. They know Phillip, the guy who worked his ass off in law school and continues to work his ass off." His eyes are squinted and his face is twisted in anger but Mickey knows the feeling, of always giving up pieces of yourself so he nods once. He doesn't question Lip reverting back to his full name because it makes sense. Lip has had to adjust his identity to fit in. </p><p class="p2">"Then when you're done here, go back home and continue to live your life. Be Lip, be Phillip, be the best goddamn lawyer you can be because <em>that's</em> your job." Mickey says. "Like I said, man. It's not your job to sacrifice every thing you earn." </p><p class="p2">Lip doesn't speak for a moment but he rubs the vein in his forehead as he looks down at his shoes. He sees the dirt and the stains ground into the leather already and he suddenly can't remember what they looked like before the mess.</p><p class="p2">"It's my job to protect them." He shrugs and that's the end of that conversation. </p><p class="p2">For Lip, protecting his siblings was as easy as breathing. He made sure that they were clothed, fed, and loved and for a long time, that seemed to work but now as they got older, they demanded more, no— they needed more. They simply needed more and he didn't know if he had much left to give them without leaving nothing for himself. With Ian, it was easy. Not that it had always been easy of course but for the most part, Ian just needed someone to hold him nice and tight and make sure he didn't fall through the cracks. Lip knew that his job was to make sure his brother stayed above water, quietly wading rather than loudly drowning. If he could, Lip would give up everything for his brother and not too long ago, he almost had. He didn't like to play favorites with his siblings but there would always be a soft spot inside of Lip for his kid brother. </p><p class="p2">"You know, Ian is a good person. He's the best person I know, which in this neighborhood, isn't saying much but he's...good." Lip sniffs, wiping the sweaty palms of his hands on his slacks. </p><p class="p2">"Why are you telling me this?" Mickey glances sideways at the intoxicated Gallagher. Lip gives him a dead stare like it should be obvious but to Mickey, it's not. </p><p class="p2">"Because Ian likes you. I've been here less than five hours and he's already talked my ear off about the great Mickey fucking Milkovich. Didn't have the heart to tell him that I know you and you ain't that great." Lip snorts and looks up at the sky while Mickey feels something lurch in his chest at the idea of Ian talking about him and thinking so highly of him. It could be bile but instead it's warm and feels like adoration. "Ian hasn't always had the best time making friends. When I left, I think he got lost for a while and things went downhill." He says and Mickey doesn't have a chance to raise any questions because Lip starts up again in his drunken spiel. "I'm glad that he has someone to look up to." </p><p class="p2">Lip's words don't sit right with Mickey because to Mickey, it sounds like he's a role model or a God to Ian rather than someone he could eventually fall in love with. Not that that's what Mickey wants— not at all. Mickey doesn't want to be placed on a pedestal because eventually, without a doubt, he'll fall and he'll disappoint Ian and that would absolutely shatter both of them. </p><p class="p2">"I ain't a saint." Mickey coughs awkwardly, rubbing his eyebrow with his thumb to soothe the tension. </p><p class="p2">"Who is?" Lip asks rhetorically. "Look, Ian means well. He's a good kid with issues just like the rest of us it's just— his issues are kind of bigger than most. I'm not gonna say anything else about it because that's his business. I just want to warn you that he may come off as this adorable, confident guy and he is to a point but he has his faults and I don't want you to overlook them but I also don't want you to hold them against him when the time comes." Lip huffs air out of his cheeks distractedly and looks at Mickey for confirmation who has his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. </p><p class="p2">"You're either speaking in code or I'm higher than I thought." He mumbles, rubbing the slightly stubble that's growing on his cheeks. </p><p class="p2">Lip pops Mickey's shoulder in aggravation. "I'm being serious, you dick. When the time comes and Ian's ready to tell you about his shit, just listen to him, alright? That's all you gotta do." </p><p class="p2">"What shit?" Mickey yelps, now rubbing his shoulder in pain. </p><p class="p2">"It ain't my business." Lip mutters, shaking his head and standing from the stoop. Mickey rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, feeling phantom pressure build up in his skull like his head could burst at any minute. "I'm glad he has you but if you fuck him over, I'll kill you." Lip warns with no real heat but Mickey knows he means it. Mickey would do the same for his sisters, Mandy included.</p><p class="p2">He waves a tattooed hand at the older Gallagher, still rubbing the sting out of his eyes from the crafty weed. "Yeah, yeah."</p><p class="p2">"I'll see ya around, Mickey."</p><p class="p2">And like that, Mickey is left alone on the back porch trying to dissect his own thoughts on top of what Lip has left in his lap. The wind starts to pick up and it's a nice relief from the humidity in the air. Mickey takes a minute to stretch his bent legs out on the steps below him, leaning backwards on his palms to try and relax the pent up tension in his muscles.</p><p class="p2">Mickey wants to go inside and ask Lip what coked out dealer he bought that weed from because it felt laced with something but he feels a looming presence behind him just in time. </p><p class="p2">"Ey, asshole, what the fuck was in that shit?" He bites the inside of his cheek, wiping the fallen hairs away from his forehead. </p><p class="p2">"Lip give you some bad weed?" Ian's voice is deep and amusing from behind Mickey which makes him whip his head around quickly, feeling the tendons in his neck stress from whiplash. He grunts and rubs the back of his neck in pain to which Ian chuckles, taking Lip's spot on the steps.</p><p class="p2">Mickey leans forward to give him some room but Ian's hands are on his clothed shoulders in an instant, rubbing and digging into the tense areas. </p><p class="p2">"You don't gotta d-do that." Mickey stumbles over his words as his eyes fight against him and drift closed at the feeling of Ian's warm hands on him. </p><p class="p2">From what Mickey has learned in the short time of meeting Ian Gallagher is that he doesn't mind touching, in fact he encourages it. It's normally small things like brushing up against Mickey in the confined spaces of the store or grabbing his arm to get his attention. Where they come from, most forms of affection or contact are apart of the underlying rules of no touching. No contact unless it's a fist to a face, that is. </p><p class="p2">Ian seemed like someone Mickey would normally be terrified of back in the day and he would probably cover up that fear with sarcasm and rude remarks. He may have even bullied him had he not been off limits according to the threatening wrath of Lip Gallagher. </p><p class="p2"><em>”Touch him again and</em> <em>y</em><em>ou’ll be seeing me at your doorstep with a bat.” Lip shoves a bigger guy, Roger Spikey, as they stand in front of the school after smoking under the bleachers. From what Mickey could remember, Roger was about six feet tall and a few years older than all of them but that didn’t seem to matter to Lip. </em></p><p class="p2">
  <em>Mickey could see the younger Gallagher hunched in on himself, grasping at the straps of his backpack as he looked away from the scene playing out on his behalf. His red hair was blowing in the wind and Mickey found himself mesmerized by it until Roger’s voice pulled him out of it.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>“Your kid brother is a fag, Gallag-“ The words don’t make it out of the guys mouth before Lip slacks his jaw with his fist, pounding until the bigger guy is laying on his back, clutching his face. </em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>”Say some shit like that again and I’ll blind you, asshole.” Lip spits at the guy before grabbing Ian by his hood and hauling him done the street.</em>
</p><p class="p2"><em> Mickey couldn’t remember a time he had seen Lip so angry. Mostly, he was either mellow or stressed out depending on the weed they smoked</em> <em> that day.</em></p><p class="p2">"It's fine. I used to do it for Carl all the time. He played football as a kid and he wasn't so good." Ian presses down on a sensitive spot between Mickey's shoulder blades and he lets out a grunt, grinding his teeth in response. </p><p class="p2">"Football, huh?" Mickey doesn’t remember much about Carl, just that he used to steal pets from different houses and shave their fur before returning them days later. He was a weird kid and a lot of people called him “Killer Carl” around the neighborhood. The bets on when he’d go to juvie floated around often and probably still do.</p><p class="p2">"He wasn't very good at it. I think he was just in it to so he could knock people around." Ian jokes, continuing his rough but gentle assault on Mickey's shoulders. </p><p class="p2">"Sounds like me when I was at that age." Mickey hisses, closing his eyes at the stinging pressure of Ian's hands twisting his muscles around in his palms. </p><p class="p2">"You played sports?" The younger man asks, leaning in closer so his breath brushes up against the skin of Mickey's neck causing the older man to shiver, masking it behind rubbing his arms to fake cold. </p><p class="p2">Mickey hums. "I played baseball. Didn't like it so much." His forehead pulls together in concentration as Ian's hands let up and run down his back soothingly. It might be the weed or Mickey's willingness to have Ian touch him but he's still not sure why he hasn't jumped up and ran away from the conversation yet. Mickey's muscles feel like putty and there's a calming wind in the air around them. </p><p class="p2">"What, were the pants too tight? They didn’t fit you right?" Ian feigns playfulness and Mickey reaches around to smack his calf. </p><p class="p2">"No, actually believe it or not, I was shit at baseball." Mickey growls playfully in the back of his throat and Ian continues to rub his back even though the massage is over and Mickey's neck no longer feels strained. </p><p class="p2">"So, why did you play?" </p><p class="p2">It's a innocent enough question but images of Mickey's father screaming at him in their backyard flash quickly through his mind like a major motion picture show and he feels sick to his stomach all over again. The weed isn't to blame for this. Just his father and the visions of left over abuse like a raw wound that keeps reopening.</p><p class="p2">
  <em>"You're gonna play, Mickey. I won't have no son of mine sitting around with his thumb up his ass like some pansy. Real men play sports!"</em>
</p><p class="p2">"I wish I knew." Mickey whispers into the breeze but Ian hears him because his hands drop from Mickey's back and he drops down on the same step with the smaller man, stretching his legs out so they extend longer than Mickey's.</p><p class="p2">Ian nudges Mickey's shoulder with his own, acknowledging the small shift in his mood. And Mickey doesn't mean to shut down but sometimes, he can't seem to help it. He becomes harsh and distant when the memories of his father arise and he despises that the man still has an effect on him after all these years of him being free. Utterly and totally free but not really. The house he grew up in is still two streets over and the memories of him nursing black eyes and cauterizing knife wounds with a match in the bathroom are still vivid as if he was still trapped in that life— <em>with him</em>. </p><p class="p2">"I'm not that great at baseball either." Ian admits, patting Mickey's kneecap with his open hand. It's comforting and it lighten's Mickey's mood exponentially. Its strange to Mickey, that something as simple as a small touch can mean so much to him when he feels so little. Ian has this way about him that makes Mickey believe he's a lot like a sponge, accepting and open to everything Mickey could possibly say. </p><p class="p2">“Your brother has shit taste in weed.” Mickey settles for pointing out the obvious, feeling the cloudy feeling from earlier start to disperse. </p><p class="p2">Ian nods once, leaning toward the railing and out of Mickey’s bubble. “He buys from our neighbor who works at the bar a few blocks over— always has.”</p><p class="p2">”Hm.” The sound comes from the back of Mickey’s throat. He tilts his head and catches the sight of Ian’s jawline in the moonlight, sparkling with sweat and glitter from the confetti inside. His hair isn’t slicked back anymore but instead the hairs are all falling in front of his face, parting down the middle to give him some form of vision. His eyes are squinted and bright and Mickey thinks that they’re his new favorite color. </p><p class="p2">“So, Molly is your sister?” </p><p class="p2">“Huh?” Mickey blanches, not expecting the conversation to start again considering he was perfectly fine with just staring at Ian for the remainder of his life. </p><p class="p2">“Molly.” Ian turns his head back to Mickey, almost catching his nose with his own in the fairly close proximity.</p><p class="p2">”What about her?” The older boy panics just slightly, leaning his head back to get some space. </p><p class="p2">“I never heard about her.” Ian says and when Mickey’s brows furrow, he starts over. “I just mean, I went to school with Mandy. I didn’t know there was another Milkovich girl.” </p><p class="p2">Mickey nods, feeling Ian’s breath travel through the small space to his face. “Different mom. That’s why she looks nicer than me, man.” And that’s about all he offers.</p><p class="p2">“I have a different dad than all my siblings.” Ian says, slurring his words just a little bit which would almost worry Mickey if he hadn’t been here to see it. Ian’s eyes have started to move towards a slanted position and his cheeks are radiating heat from all of the alcohol in his system.</p><p class="p2">”That why you’re a ginger?” Mickey asks simply. </p><p class="p2">“Debbie is a ginger too.” Ian points out, pursing his lips which draws Mickey’s eyes right to them. Mickey finds himself wishing that Ian had come out here and smoked with he and Lip so Mickey could see the way Ian’s cheeks hollowed around the blunt, lips wet with saliva. Mickey has to shake his head to rid of the thoughts before he does something stupid.</p><p class="p2">”So what makes you different from your siblings?” </p><p class="p2">“I’m tall, I guess.” Ian tries to make sense of it in his own head because really, he’s never thought about it like that. He’s always considered he and his siblings to be one being. One family and all alike. </p><p class="p2">“You are tall.” Mickey blindly agrees, not so much focusing on the words but the way Ian’s mouth forms the words he’s saying. “What else makes you different from them?” Mickey desperately wants to keep him talking as he leans forward half an inch and breathes in the liquor on his breath as he exhales through his mouth in thought. </p><p class="p2">Ian smirks before licking his lips and Mickey feels something in his blood go hot like a white iron at the action. His pants feel uncomfortable but he doesn’t move to fix them because Ian is leaning in, his lips brushing Mickey’s cheek before he stops at his ear.</p><p class="p2">“I’m gay.”</p><p class="p2">Ian pulls back and there’s a half second where Mickey thinks he might kiss him and if he tried, Mickey would let him and that fact is terrifying enough. The instinct of flight takes over and he scoots away so there’s half a foot of space back between them. If this was a few years ago, fight would’ve taken over and Mickey, in his current state, would have punched him for being so close and saying that shit. It makes Mickey feel weak. The way that something as small as Ian’s presence can make him throw everything he knows and has learned out the window. Being around Ian isn’t safe for him and he can’t keep going like this.</p><p class="p2">“Good for you, man.” He manages to squeeze out as his hands find the side of the house and he hoists himself up on his feet. He wobbles as his legs feel like jello and Ian’s hand darts out to grab his wrist— hot skin on even hotter skin. </p><p class="p2">“That’s all you have to say?” Ian asks, mouth hanging open in confusion. From this position of Mickey standing above him and Ian’s mouth wide open, Mickey thinks that whatever he says now has to be enough to never put him in this situation again. He can’t do this. Not now, not ever. He was fooling himself for thinking that what he felt for Ian could ever be something small or manageable. </p><p class="p2">“Look, if you want to go broadcasting that shit then that’s fine but in this neighborhood, I’d be a little more careful.” Mickey says, pulling Ian’s hand off of his arm before each step one at a time until he’s inside. </p><p class="p2">His eyes search frantically for Molly and he finds her standing by the window talking to one of the younger Gallaghers, Debbie. Her hair is red but it’s a darker shade than Ian’s and he uses it as a guiding beacon to the other side of the room. His hand falls on his sisters shoulder and he jerks his head to the door once. </p><p class="p2">“It was nice talking to you.” She politely excuses herself and Debbie just waves, moving onto the next person who will stand and listen while she does most of the talking. </p><p class="p2">Mickey makes it outside again, his feet shuffling quickly down the stairs and towards the gate without a word before Molly catches up to him, out of breath. </p><p class="p2">“So?” She asks, practically running fo catch up to Mickey.</p><p class="p2">”What?” There’s an edge to Mickey’s voice as he hurries quickly away from the Gallagher home. </p><p class="p2">”How’d it go?” She pushes. </p><p class="p2">“How’d what go?” </p><p class="p2">“Talking with Ian.” Molly says in what Mickey can only assume is similar to that of a ‘duh’ tone. </p><p class="p2">“The fuck do you mean? I talk to him all the time. Why would one conversation be any different from the others?” Mickey asks her, confused by what exactly she’s trying to insinuate or gather from her inquisition.</p><p class="p2">”Mickey, Jesus.” </p><p class="p2">Molly stops walking and that causes Mickey to halt in the middle of the walkway, turning to face her with his hands in the air. “What now, little miss Drama Queer?” </p><p class="p2">Molly takes a step forward and slaps Mickey on the chest hard with her open palm and he growls in the back of his throat. When she doesn’t stop he finally shoves her shoulder harshly. “Fuck off.” </p><p class="p2">“He likes you. Like really likes you.” </p><p class="p2">There’s a minute of silence where Mickey tries to find where in the deepest recesses of his brain could that fact have gotten lost. “How the fuck would you know that?”</p><p class="p2">”He told me.” She shrugs, crossing her small arms around herself as they stand arguing with each other in the middle of the street. </p><p class="p2">“Oh, he did, did he?” Mickey’s eyebrows shoot all the way to his hairline. Had Ian really been talking to Molly about him? What had they talked about? If Ian had admitted that he liked Mickey to Molly, what more could have happened had Mickey stuck around instead of ditching? There’s so many questioning whirling around in Mickey’s head right now that it’s hard to land on one. But he picks the most pressing one. “What else did he say?” </p><p class="p2">“Nope.” Molly shakes her head, walking past Mickey in the direction of the train station. </p><p class="p2">“What the fuck do you mean, no?” Mickey runs a hand down his face in frustration at his younger sister. </p><p class="p2">“I’m not doing this. If you want to know something, you have to talk to him.” Molly shouts, waving an arm out dismissively.</p><p class="p2">Mickey looks up at the darkened sky and notices how it’s the same as when he was on the porch with Ian, not five minutes ago and yet it feels like hours ago. He was so close to having everything he ever wanted and he chickened out of telling Ian how he felt. He wanted to say, “You’re gay? Me too.” But instead, all he got was word vomit and harsh comments to come out when it should’ve been him coming out.</p><p class="p2">Now he stands on the sidewalk alone, his buzz from earlier now gone and replaced with a feeling of regret. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey fights, Mickey loses.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warning: homophobic language and physical abuse. slight mention of childhood emotional abuse.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For Mickey, admitting he was gay to himself was never really the issue he had. It was everyone else around him who failed to accept the fact that he was gay and therefore he hid it. He told himself day in and day out that it was everyone else's problem and that he was fine. They were small minded characters that held him back from reaching his full form. He used to sit around and watch the parades on television and while he was happy for everyone getting to be who they were, he was also a little jealous.</p><p>He didn't long to march with the pride flags or anything of that nature, but he was jealous of how brave everyone seemed. They were all smiling, holding hands and it made him feel sick to his stomach because in Southside, he would never have that. The neighborhood was big but everyone inside of it was so small. </p><p>He was serious when he told Ian to be careful about shouting it from the rooftops. In reality, sure he was projecting, but being gay in Southside was a death sentence. When Mickey was nine, he had his first experience with another boy that shook him to his core. When everyone else was on the playground, he and Walker, his best and only friend at the time, would go out by the clearing behind the swings and sit and swap books and laugh. They would always hang out away from the other kids mainly because Walker had a prominent stutter and Mickey didn't fit in with everyone else. Everyone else seemed to have a perfect life and good functioning families and Mickey had spent the night before picking his own teeth off of the kitchen floor so he stayed away from them.</p><p>Walker barely spoke due to his speech impediment and that worked just fine for Mickey. There was a mutual agreement and they both needed it. As time went on and they got comfortable with each other, Walker would hold Mickey's hand as he spoke and it was innocent enough that Mickey sort of grew to like it. He liked the intimate contact because at home, he didn't get much. His mother was terrified to show love toward her own kids and his father resented them—passing along his trait of violence to each of his offspring instead of inspiring love. </p><p>Walker was gentle, something that Mickey never experienced and it was a nice change from the roughhousing from his brothers. Walker was a lankier boy who had shaggy blonde hair and beautiful brown eyes that Mickey liked to look at. His skin was a tan color and he had freckles all over his nose that, over a period of time, Mickey had tried to count and failed. </p><p>One day, like any other day, Mickey and Walker were on their way out to their spot when a group of older boys cornered them, poking and pushing at them while asking questions like, <em>"Do you guys come out here to kiss? Is that your boyfriend, Milkovich? Couple of fags, huh?" </em></p><p>And all the while Mickey could hear his father's voice echoing in his head after he had watched a girly romantic film with Mandy and Terry walked in on them during the second half. He threw his beer can at the screen, cracking it and sending the alcohol everywhere. </p><p>
  <em>"Ain't gonna have no pillow biting queer kid, even if it kills me. Cut that shit off." </em>
</p><p>The words were clear in his head and he knew what he had to do. So, Mickey did what anybody else in his position would do, or what he thought they would do. He punched Walker in the jaw and mocked his stutter, proving to the older boys that he couldn't care less about his friend— his only friend for that matter. Anything to protect himself which was something he was used to doing. Whether it be shielding his face from his father's fists or throwing the first punch in a fight to prove he was strong like a man.</p><p>
  <em>"I ain't a faggot." He spits, kicking dirt in Walker's face for extra measure before walking away, his hands tucked in the pockets of his old jeans. His neck was sweating and he felt like he was on the verge of tears but weakness was a show that no one would pay for so he sucked it up and kept walking in the direction of the playground as if his entire world wasn't crashing down around him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The guys all gave him slaps on the back, inviting him over to smoke with them on the blacktop and that was that. He finally had a place to fit but he still felt empty.  </em>
</p><p>After that, Mickey never wanted to hold hands with anyone ever again. Walker was his first and last until Ian Gallagher blew threw like a strong wind, knocking him down off of the high ladder he'd created to separate himself from everyone else around him. Ian scared him in a way that he hadn't felt since Walker. Not even with any of the boys he messed around with in high school. Most of them were just as closeted as he was and they were all pawns in a game he played until one day he lost and had to rebuild.</p><p>But when he finally lost, boy, did he have to build. </p><p>It destroyed Mickey to stop hanging out with Walker but he gained a new friend group that stayed with him up until high school when he stopped going to classes. He could never do the homework because it was too hard and he didn't have much help so his grades slipped, making him fall a grade or two behind.</p><p>As Mickey grew older, he began to accept the fact that he would always like boys. He just couldn't find the words to explain it to anyone but himself, so he pushed it away. He even tried to will it away through God but he found that he didn't believe in God so much. For a while, he had convinced himself that it was on him to fix whatever was broken inside of him. But after he was kicked from his home where he felt smothered, he started to realize it wasn't on him. It was slow and the build was excruciating but he eventually got to a place where he could look in the mirror and say the words, "I'm gay." </p><p>Sure, he carried around scars, some visible and some not. Like the joint in his left knee that tightens with the rain and the vision in his left eye is blurry from years of beatings and black eyes going untreated. That's why he had to wear glasses these days. He never needed them until Terry had popped him with a pistol so hard, blood surrounded his cornea, making it hard for him to see. He was broken and battered and there was no one to blame but his big mouth and his father. </p><p>At work, things proved to be awkward with Ian after the younger man had finally come out to him with as little flare as possible but Mickey had shut him down in the worst way imaginable. And it wasn’t like Mickey hadn’t tried talking to him. He had attempted several conversations over the next few days but Ian wasn’t having it. He just sat, stoic, reading the paper and only making facial expressions every so often when he’d read something he didn’t like. </p><p>This continued on for 3 days before Mickey had enough of the heavy breathing and dramatic sighing before he finally bit the bullet, swallowing his pride knowing he was opening a can of worms and many other cliches. </p><p>“You hungry, man?” Mickey asked, propping his hand up on the counter to hold his face as he peered over at Ian who didn’t make any movement or acknowledgement. </p><p>“I can go grab some lunch. What are you in the mood for?” He tried but all he got back was Ian’s eyebrow twitching just a fraction as he remained stuck in his paper from this morning. </p><p>“The fuck are you reading that’s so interesting?” He groans internally when Ian still doesn’t look up and frankly, he should’ve just left it alone right there. He should’ve shut up and left him to his silent but passive reading. But Mickey has been known to push people’s buttons when he was aggravated and right now is no different.</p><p>”Alright, what the fuck, Ian? Why are you acting like such a girl?” Mickey frowns, watching Ian’s hard expression fall before it’s back again but this time, Ian looks up meeting Mickey’s harsh eyes.</p><p>”What did you say to me?” Ian asks under his breath before standing from his chair, towering over Mickey at the desk. </p><p>“I asked why you’re acting like a girl and being so goddamn dramatic?” Mickey huffs, straightening up a little to appear taller. </p><p>“A girl? Is it because I’m gay, Mickey? Do you have a problem with people being feminine, Mick?” Ian tacks on the Mickey for extra measure and normally that would’ve made Mickey melt from affection but the way Ian said it was like vinegar— sour and full of distaste— and that made Mickey’s blood freeze instantly. </p><p>Mickey sputters. “W-why the fuck would I care about that shit?” He asks incredulously because it makes no sense to him. Of course he doesn’t care that Ian is gay, in fact he prefers it. </p><p>“Most homophobes usually do.” Ian spits, turning his back to Mickey to pick up his fallen newspaper.</p><p><em>Homophobe</em>. </p><p>”Say that shit to me again and I’ll-“ </p><p>“And you’ll what? You wanna fag bash me, Mickey?” Ian stomps over to the desk until he’s leaning over it, his nose almost touching Mickey’s face. </p><p>No, of course not. Mickey doesn’t want to hurt him but hearing himself being called a homophobe by the guy he has a crush on sounds like a worse fate than death itself. Mickey eases himself out of Ian’s space before leaning back on his stool. He runs a sweaty palm down his face before sighing and scratching his head.</p><p>He could just come clean and tell Ian that he’s not a homophobe and that would be easier, right? Just tell him he thinks he likes him as more than a friend and that he sometimes even finds himself dreaming about the red headed fucker. Some part of him knows that the second he says it, he can’t take it back. You can’t “no homo” an “I’m gay” declaration. Once it’s out there, it’s out there and it’s terrifying. But, letting Ian think he hates him sounds so much worse than any of that. </p><p>So Mickey breathes, in and out, before speaking. “I’m not homophobic.” It comes out shaky and wet like he can’t swallow and all of the bile is getting a stuck in his throat.</p><p>“Yeah, how do you figure that?” Ian crosses his arms, tucking the newspaper underneath one. He knew there would be a follow up question because it’s Ian, why wouldn’t there be? It could never just be enough. </p><p>There’s a dull heartbeat pounding in the older man’s ears as he watches the wind pick up outside the store, slightly rattling the windows to beget the silence around them. Mickey just wants more time— he needs more time to make this okay before he comes clean but right now, letting Ian go a minute more thinking that shit about him would crush him. And that’s what keeps him upright and talking. </p><p>“Because I’m gay.” </p><p>And it’s out there, Ian knows and the relief on his chest is small but at least it’s there too. If Mickey could take a picture of Ian’s face and frame it up in his apartment, he would because it’s priceless. It’s of shock and awe, confusion, and maybe a little happiness if Mickey is seeing things correctly. </p><p>“You are?” He whispers, mouth hanging slightly open, searching Mickey’s face for some kind of sign that he’s fucking with him. </p><p>“Yeah but only you and a handful of people know so please...” Mickey doesn’t know what exactly he’s asking but apparently Ian does so he nods quickly, assuring Mickey that he understands. </p><p>“So why didn’t you just tell me that night when I told you?” Ian leans against the counter with his hip, arms still crossed.</p><p>Mickey sighs heavily, knowing that it’s a complicated and long winded answer that can never be shortened. “Because I haven’t had the best experience with coming out, not that I ever really officially got to.” </p><p>He knows it’s vague but he doesn’t really feel like talking about the situation because he’s still running off of an adrenaline high from all of this. He looks around outside to make sure no one is lurking and can hear them. And that’s the reality—he’s always going to be looking over his shoulder, waiting for a baseball bat to the back of head. </p><p>"But you could've told me." And while it's comforting, it's not what Mickey needed to hear because really, he couldn't even admit it to himself until a few weeks ago so what makes Ian think that he's so special here? What makes Ian think that he has any say on the matter? And Mickey doesn't know Ian's whole story but it doesn't stop him from making accusations. </p><p>"How did your family react when you came out?" Mickey asks rhetorically. "Did they throw you a fucking party? No, I bet they congratulated you and got you a gift for being so brave!" Mickey shouts, feeling his face grow hot from anger and jealously that Ian has a family that loves and accepts him but mostly frustration. Frustration that nothing can ever just be simple for him, frustration that everything he wants will always be complicated. Freedom, happiness, <em>Ian. </em></p><p>"It doesn't matter." Ian shakes his head calmly which just encourages Mickey even further. </p><p>"It does matter because some things aren't fucking easy for those of us who-"</p><p>"Who what? Struggle? You think that I don't struggle, Mickey? You think that we aren't all struggling? Every fucking sad thing that I see on the news or that I read about in the paper about people like us just feels like another nail in my coffin and I just feel like I'm sitting here waiting for the world to figure out that I don't belong and that I don't deserve to be here just as much as anyone else." Ian's chest is heaving up and down by the time he's done and there are tears rimming the skin under his eyes, waiting to fall and Mickey has to look away because the sight of Ian sad makes him feel sick. </p><p>He thumbs his nose carefully before clearing his throat. "The world fucking sucks." </p><p>It's an understatement and Ian scoffs in agreement, a smile looming on his face. "Yeah, it does." Ian settles down against himself and rubs at his eyes to get rid of the stinging tears. "When I was thirteen, Lip took me to a baseball game. We had to sneak in and sit in the back but it was one of the best days of my life." Ian waits for Mickey to respond with semi-wide eyes. </p><p>"Okay.” Mickey doesn't know what to say because he's not sure why Gallagher is telling him this but he's damn sure gonna listen. </p><p>"I saw all the guys there and they were wearing tight pants and tight shirts and I couldn't look away. I knew then that I was different because afterward, Lip asked me about the cheerleaders they had on the sidelines and he told me to rate them on a scale of one to ten." Ian snorts and Mickey finds himself starting to smile at a preteen gay Ian being asked if he finds females attractive, face all red and embarrassed. </p><p>"What happened?" </p><p>"I gave them all three's and Lip called me insane. We went home and after that, I just knew something was off about me."</p><p>"There's nothing off about you." Mickey argues and Ian give him a placating smile. </p><p>"I know that now but then, I just couldn't look at myself properly. I grew up, learned, and really leaned into who I was. After I came out to my family, I just stopped hiding altogether because I figured, these are the people I love, their opinions are what really matter. No one else's." Ian explains and in theory it makes sense, but to Mickey, whose never really gotten the chance to fully love and open up to someone like that, it strikes him as odd— a myth. "When did you first know? Like really know?"</p><p>It's not a hard question. Mickey remembers the day clearly, he just wouldn't know how to properly describe it to anyone that wasn't there with him but the way Ian's looking at him makes him think that he'll understand the feeling, the emotion.</p><p>"My family and I uh- we went on a beach trip one summer before I started junior high. My dad was in prison for a few weeks and the reason he went isn't important but I just remember feeling the heat of relief that year." Mickey pauses, taking a short breath before going again. "We all packed into the car and my mom drove us down there for like a week, maybe five days. I think it was the first time that I felt free, happy. When we got there, everyone kind of spread out. My mom and Mandy went off and Colin and Iggy ended up going to an arcade so I was alone but I wasn't scared. I just started walking along this short shopping pier until I found a bench and I sat and watched the tourists for a few hours. They all looked as relaxed and happy as I felt." Mickey feels himself slowly drifting back to that moment and it's warmth, peace. He feels at peace as he sees himself sitting there on the beach in the sun, the glow on his skin disguised as sunburn tightening. </p><p>"It wasn't until I saw two men, both kind of young but way older than me, holding hands that I kind of went rigid. They kissed as they leaned against the pier railing and it was like something shocked my system. I thought to myself, maybe one day I'll feel that free, that happy." His voice has turned down to barely a whisper and he has to dig his nails into the skin of his wrists to bring himself back. "They got dirty looks and a few people said some rude things to them, but they just kept holding hands, walking through the drifted crowd of people. It was like they were unbothered—free. I could hear a voice in my head saying, 'if only my dad had been around to see this' and my blood went from cold to warm in seconds. So, I got up, walked back to the motel we were staying at, and sat there, cold and alone until everyone came back a few hours later. He wasn't even there..." Mickey trails off, feeling his throat tighten up but he breathes, in and out, and keeps going. He's no longer looking at Ian or even in his direction but down at his hands, watching the nails draw blood from his skin. "He wasn't even there and he managed to ruin the whole trip for me. He stripped away my freedom and happiness."</p><p>Mickey wants to add 'not for the first or last time' but he doesn't. He just sits there, impatiently waiting for Ian to say something, he doesn't care what. Just something because the silence followed by the weight of the bomb he just dropped is suffocating him. </p><p>"That was your moment?" Mickey nods, rubbing over the crescents his nails made in his skin. "It's sounds like a good moment. You deserve more good moments." Ian whispers, holding his hand out across the desk for Mickey to take.</p><p>There's a minute of hesitation where Mickey is just staring at the pale skin laid out in front of him, but after a second, where it doesn't get pulled away like the rug out from under him, he reaches out and touches it, feeling the warmth of Ian's fingers splay out over his hand. </p><p>He sighs, feeling the same relief he's always felt with Ian— like he can finally breathe after years of holding his breath, waiting for something bad to happen. </p><p>"So, what now?" Ian asks, rubbing over the small indents in Mickey's wrist, slowly watching them fade away. </p><p>Mickey doesn't understand because what does he mean, what now? "What?"</p><p>"I mean, what do we do now?" Ian furrows his eyebrows, tightening his hold on Mickey's hand and something about the question doesn't sit right with him. Something about the way Ian’s eyes are bleeding into his, looking at him with so much hope and focus and it makes his stomach churn. </p><p>"<em>We </em>don't do anything." Mickey says roughly, pulling his hand from Ian's tight grip. He wipes the sweat off onto his pant leg and waits for the bomb to drop. He knows what Ian wants and there's nothing more he wants in this world than to give it to him, to allow himself to have it too. But, he can't because that would be a death sentence for them both. If his father ever found out, much less the whole world, they wouldn't make it. There's no way they could make it in Southside.</p><p>“But you and me-“ And the small sliver of anticipation and desire for more in Ian’s voice makes Mickey feel like absolute shit. It makes him feel like scum because he can’t— he just can’t. </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“What about you and me? There is no you and me, Gallagher. It’s </span> <span class="s1">just you. You’ll get out of here, maybe go back to California with Lip where everyone is happier than they are here. Find someone who’s gonna love you for you, freckles and all. Someone who’s gonna hold your hand in broad daylight and tell you that the sun shines out of your ass everyday. You gotta do that for you, because it can’t be me. I ain’t never gonna be able to do that with you so it’s just best if you realize that out now.” The words are spilling out, one by one, forming the deepest, scariest thoughts in Mickey’s head. They’re out now and they’re real. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ian, a guy who normally towers above him, look a few inches small. Mickey’s words have knocked him down, cutting him off at the knees. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wouldn’t leave for fucking California and I don’t understand why you’re so scared.” Ian frowns, wiping his face as if tears have fallen there. They haven’t, but if they had, now would be the time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mickey is scared, Ian’s not wrong. He’s scared of most things, everything. Mostly, he thinks that he doesn’t want Ian to get hurt because of him. If they do this, if they take this step and something happens to Ian, he won’t forgive himself. The world is so terrifying right now for people like them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>People like them.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mickey won’t be the reason something happens to Ian.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He won’t let Ian become like Walker because though Mickey has grown, his survival instincts are still the same and he’s scared. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to be with Ian the way that he wants them to. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re so fucking naive, Gallagher.” Mickey shakes his head, walking out from behind the counter to grab his coat from the rack by the door. “Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can just have it! You had a supportive family growing up, that’s great for you but not everybody just gets to blurt out how they fucking feel every minute. Some people have to shut up and survive the best way they know how and I’m sorry that you don’t get that. I’m actually happy that you don’t understand what that feels like but it’s just not that easy for some of us.” He shrugs the jacket on, feeling like he just added a 50lb weight to his shoulders. He shrugs it on feeling like the worst person in the world because he can’t even look at Ian, the guy he likes, thinks he could love, but can’t have.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">”So, fucking what, Mickey? We’re just nothing now? We can’t be together because you’re scared? Scared of what?” Ian throws his hands up, finally gaining back the inches he lost just moments ago.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mickey scratches the back of his neck, feeling like this entire conversation wasn’t meant to happen. He wishes that it never had because Ian wants answers and Mickey doesn’t have the right ones to give him. He can’t say what Ian wants to hear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So, he settles for the truth.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"> “When</span> <span class="s1"> you spend your life hearing people tell you that everything about you is wrong, you convince yourself that existing is just too much. You start to hate who you are and what you are and you slowly convince yourself that everything is about you <em>is</em> wrong. When you grow up like that, Gallagher, it’s just hard to rest and it’s hard to come back from that.” Mickey sighs, feeling exhausted. “I ain’t right for you, man.” </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mickey.” And it’s soft, demanding, and patient, like he’s begging Mickey but also trying to soothe him. But Mickey can’t look at him and he needs to go. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m really sorry.” Mickey apologizes but he’s not sure what for—probably a number of things. He just feels like everything is his fault right now and he wishes he could be better for Ian, be stronger for Ian. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Its silent and Mickey can feel himself coming down from the emotional high as he grabs the door handle and lets himself out onto the street, leaving Ian in a place much worse than where he originally was before today. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey has a few talks about the concept of more.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mention of slight internalized homophobia, childhood abuse, blatant homophobia, and death.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>April, 1978; Southside, Chicago</strong>
</p><p>For most people, they have a place where they fit and thrive if they’re lucky. It can be at school, with friends, with family, or on their own, in their own space. The more he thought about it, Mickey couldn’t remember a time where he fit or thrived. </p><p>It was easy to compare himself to everyone else around him and look at them, but when it came to himself, he was lost at sea, so close to drowning and going under the current that it almost felt like relief. Relief that he could be done if he wanted to. That he didn’t have to live like this anymore if he didn’t want to. There was that hope that if it got too bad, he could shut everything off and stop—just stop. </p><p>It was a sad truth but nothing could be any sadder than feeling utterly and completely lost all the fucking time, wondering blindly instead of carving your own path and taking life by the fucking horns. It was all so <em>hopeless. </em></p><p>Mickey had opted for taking a few days off of work, telling Ray he was coming down with something to which Ray asked, “You avoiding <em>Sunshine </em>now?”</p><p>The nickname makes Mickey inwardly roll his eyes. According to Ray, Ian dressed like a dirty hippie, smelled like weed all the time and his shining optimism was exhausting, especially for a black man in the 70s. Racism was still alive and kicking after all. </p><p>The question alone was enough to make Mickey crouch awkwardly into himself as he sat on the phone, telling his boss and caretaker that it was something seasonal, a spring cold or something. He wanted to ask Ray why he thought Mickey would be avoiding Ian but Mickey knew that Ray knew.</p><p>Ray had always known about Mickey's sexuality and he’s never been subtle about it in any way, shape or form. Ray used to try to set Mickey up with every guy that walked into the record shop until Mickey nipped it in the bud, telling Ray he didn’t do that kind of thing. Which was right, Mickey never dated. He never even tried to because he didn’t like women in that way and dating men, as a man, in this day and age, was like buying a coffin and a life insurance policy. </p><p>So, Mickey just opted for being alone most of the time and that worked for him. He stayed sexually frustrated and alone, having nowhere to put his feelings until Ian Gallagher came along and became the perfect place for him to do so. Ian was kind, soft, smart, pretty much everything Mickey knew he wasn’t. Mickey is rough around the edges, a little abrasive, and just not good. </p><p>Mickey knew it from the first day he met him that Ian was good— too good.</p><p>And he thinks about that for the 2 days he stays at home. The days drag on longer with not much to do and he wonders how he spent days off alone before Ian came along to distract him, making the days go better and faster. They seemed shorter and Mickey always went home and waited for the day to start again so he could see Ian but he would never tell anyone that, not even himself. But, now he’s actively avoiding the Gallagher kid which seems like a pussy move on his part but there’s not much else he can do. He feels like shit after shooting Ian down when that was the last thing he wanted. Of course he wanted to be with Ian in all of those frilly, intimate ways that you’re supposed to be when you like or potentially love someone. </p><p>That was another thing that Mickey struggled with over the duration of the 48 hours alone. He felt something strong peeling back inside of him like a curtain or a fucking brick wall, slowly coming down and he could most definitely blame Ian for that. He wasn’t sure if it was love or something smaller—maybe something bigger. He just knew that it was all Ian Gallagher’s fault that he was stuck with it, no way to get rid of it. </p><p>If he couldn’t get rid of it, he could just ignore it for now. So for now, he focused on his relatively new bed that’s stiff as hell. He tosses and turns, feeling his back lock up from the aggressive movements. </p><p>“Motherfucker.” He groans, rubbing the muscles before sliding off the bed to look at it. “Nothing can ever be fucking simple, can it?”</p><p>And wasn’t that the damn truth.</p><p>He gets an idea to break the bed in— okay he gets an idea and has to find another idea because that’s not an option right now. Especially with his inexperience and blatant avoidance of the red headed Gallagher. </p><p>“Molly!” He shouts at the top of his lungs, hands on his hips as he waits. He leans toward the door trying to see if he can hear footsteps but all he gets is silence. He knows Molly’s home because it’s still pretty early so he yells again. “Molly!” </p><p>Finally he hears a door bang loudly and foot steps padding over until his door opens and his sister is standing there in her pajamas. </p><p>“What the fuck?” She throws her hands up, rubbing the back of her head when a yawn comes through. </p><p>“Need you to help me break in my bed.” Mickey says, pointing to the unmade, lumpy bed before them. </p><p>She walks to stands in front of it at his side, taking in the plain black sheets rumbled from sleep. “That’s a sad looking bed.” She snorts, elbowing Mickey as she goes to sit on it, testing out the feel.</p><p>She lets out a yawn, stretching her hands above her head.</p><p>“Its just a goddamn bed, you asshole but it’s a goddamn uncomfortable bed so I need you to jump on it for me.” </p><p>“Jump on it? Mickey, what’s me jumping on it gonna do?” She widens her eyes just slightly, laying back on the bed, ready to pass back out.</p><p>Mickey sighs heavily, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into his bed and sleep a little while longer. It’s still fresh morning and normally he’d be getting ready for work right now. He’d be going through his closet and picking out an outfit, comparing colors and ultimately deciding on something with blue in it.</p><p>Ian’s favorite color.</p><p>It’s as embarrassing as it sounds. </p><p>“Just please.” He begs exhaustively and Molly hauls herself up, hands pressing on her thighs as she lets out an exaggerated groan. </p><p>“Fucking waking me up at seven in the morning for this bulls-“ </p><p>“Molly.” </p><p>“Fuck you, I’m tired.” She complains, hopping up on the bed. Her hands prop herself up on the wall as she jumps up and down with little to no energy, not even making any effort. </p><p>“You gotta do more than that.” Mickey deadpans, unimpressed with the progress, feeling impatient with just standing there.</p><p>“Get up here and help me then.” Molly mumbles, adding more pressure with each jump she does. She’s already breathing heavily and wiping her forehead after a few moments. “I’m out of shape.” </p><p>“That’s what happens when you sit on your ass for months.” Mickey supplies, joining her on the bed to jump. He stands in the middle, hopping around and honestly, from any outside perspective they’d look ridiculous. He almost stumbles backwards on one jump and Molly cackles, her face lighting up a little. </p><p>“And that’s what you get!” She laughs, hopping up and down excitedly. Her blonde hair is in a low ponytail and it’s matted to the point where Mickey is sure she must’ve lost her hairbrush again. </p><p>“This is so exhausting.” Molly grunts, hitting a spot where the spring must’ve popped because she jumps out of fear. “Am I gonna get stabbed in the foot by a loose spring?” </p><p>Mickey stops jumping, thinking it over as he watches her jumping slow down. “No.” He decides though he’s not entirely sure. He knows he doesn’t sound convincing either. “No, you should be okay.” Molly nods anyway, going back to jumping.</p><p>They both do that for a few more minutes, making sure the mattress is softer before Molly plops down on her ass, leaving Mickey to finish jumping. His chest is moving up and down and if he’s honest, he’s just as out of shape as Molly too. </p><p>“You know,” Molly starts and Mickey can tell by her tone that he’s not going to enjoy where this is about to go. “There’s an easier way to break in your bed.” He looks down and sees her eyebrows moving up and down suggestively. </p><p>“Yeah, you could get off your lazy ass and help me some more.” He heaves out, feeling his thighs turn to jelly from the amount of jumping up and down. He was distracted for the moment and now, all he can think about is what Molly is suggesting— Ian on his bed, sweating and grinding, thrusting. </p><p>“No...” She drawls, standing up and walking to the middle of the room. She crosses her arms, watching Mickey slow down from her gaze.</p><p>“Drop it.” He cuts her off immediately and she holds her hands up in surrender, knowing it’s too early for this right now and even if it wasn’t, Mickey wouldn’t want to talk about it at any other time of the day.</p><p>“You’re gonna need a shower before work.” She points out but Mickey just shakes his head, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. He can feel his heart pumping in his eardrums from the exercise and it’s not the best feeling in the world to him. Physically, Mickey has a pretty average body. You can see the cutouts of his muscles in his stomach and his arms aren’t too bad, so why is he dying right now from ten minutes of jumping? </p><p>“Don’t have work today.” He uses the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead and just opts for rubbing it on his sheets for now. He’s not getting up to get a towel because in reality, he doesn’t think he could move right now. </p><p>“Again? You didn’t go in yesterday or the day before that either.” Molly shouts in a raspy voice and steps forward, rubbing around his red, flushed face. “Are you sick? Your face is really warm?”</p><p>He bats her hands away in annoyance, scowling at her for touching him. “My face is gonna be warm. We just did a shit ton of cardio.” </p><p>Her mouth makes an ‘O’ shape but her face falls into a scrunch. “Did something happen with Ian?” </p><p>And there’s the ultimate question— Ian. Ian is like one giant question, a puzzle, waiting for you to put it together and understand it. Mickey, for the life of him, couldn’t understand it. In Mickey’s lifetime, he had met a few gay guys but they were all closeted, trying to hide until someone made the first move but with Ian, Ian always made the first move. He was always there, doing everything he could to touch Mickey and show Mickey that he liked him. It was strange, why Ian was so different from everyone else. It made him question why. It made him question a lot. </p><p>“No.” Mickey huffs. It’s not totally a lie. Really, it’s more to do with Mickey himself. He can’t be around Ian until he pulls himself together. Lately, he’s felt himself slipping, making mistakes, getting careless and it’s not like him. Normally, he’s calculating with his guard up. It’s not safe for him to go around like this knowing who he is and what could happen again. He can’t let himself get caught in that again. </p><p>“Then what? Why are you missing work?” </p><p>“Just tired, Molly.”</p><p>”You tired because of the uncomfortable bed or because you’re thinking about him?”</p><p>And there’s some truth to that. Mickey can blame it on the crappy new bad all he wants but really, there’s more that’s been keeping him awake at night. But, Mickey would rather chew glass than admit it.</p><p>”Molly.” Mickey groans.</p><p>”I’m just saying you’re always tired and you never miss work.” She argues and finally Mickey just doesn’t know what to tell her so he rubs at the skin of his neck awkwardly, feeling it pulsate above his veins. </p><p>“I just needed a break from everything.” He admits instead and she must accept it or drop it because she nods solemnly, possibly understanding the feeling of everything seeming so overbearing out of the blue. </p><p>Mickey looks at her and notices that she’s not hunched over anymore like she used to. Her shoulders are tight, standing up straight like she all of a sudden feels lighter. Her skin has a bright glow to it and there’s smudged mascara under her eyes from sleeping in her makeup.</p><p><em>Since when does Molly wear makeup</em>, Mickey thinks. </p><p>“Is that makeup?” He reaches out to rub it but she steps away, looking anywhere but at her older brother who’s smirking.</p><p>”Yeah, so what?” </p><p>“I didn’t know you even owned makeup.” </p><p>“Well, I do.” She pouts, looking offended. </p><p>Mickey smirks asking, “Who’s got you wearing make up? You been leaving the building or is this the new couch potato look?” </p><p>“Maybe I’ve been going out.” She smiles, scratching her cheek where some small hairs are growing back from a lack of shaving. </p><p>And it shocks Mickey a little, that Molly is doing better. But, it makes him feel jealous that everyone is getting their shit together finally but him. He feels miles behind everyone else but at least, selfishly, if Molly was still staying home, he could blame his lack of progress on hers saying that he just doesn’t have the time or capacity. That he has to watch after her. But, if Molly is progressing and branching out, his mistakes and failures become only his and that’s a terrifying feeling, to be responsible for your own shit— no one else to blame.</p><p><em>Selfish son of a bitch</em>, Mickey thinks to himself.</p><p>“To do what?”</p><p>”I’ve been hanging out with Debbie.” </p><p>“Gallagher?” </p><p>She nods and Mickey breathes out the breath he’s been holding for a few seconds. </p><p>“You guys friends or something?” He mumbles, watching her intensely to see if her face will give anything away but it’s all blushed cheeks and dimples as far as he can see.</p><p>”Maybe...maybe more?” She shrugs, sitting down on the bed beside Mickey. He meets her eyes and gives her an encouraging half smile to continue. “I like her and I think it’s good that I have someone.” </p><p>“You have me.” Mickey points out, only halfway offended but she shakes her head.</p><p>”No, not like that. I just meant, a friend who’s like me?” She phrases it as a question. “Someone who likes girls.” </p><p>Mickey tries to keep his face from falling into shock. “Are all the Gallagher’s gay?”</p><p>He tries to think about the others but can’t even get past Ian. It’s like he’s stuck in Mickey’s head like a broken record, all thoughts reverting back to him constantly. Mickey remembers Ian saying that he was different from his family because he was the only gay one, so does Ian not even know? Should Mickey even know? </p><p>Molly laughs at that, pursing her lips. “I don’t know. Are all the Milkoviches gay?” </p><p>“So far, I think it’s just us two.” </p><p>Molly thinks for a second before smacking her forehead in realization. “No, Sandy’s gay.”</p><p>“Sandy?” Molly nods but Mickey still doesn’t believe it. “Cousin Sandy? Since fucking when?”</p><p>Their cousin Sandy is about their age, maybe a little younger and looks nothing like them, thank God. She has a scar on her face from a knife fight between Mandy when they were kids that had gone wrong. After that, Sandy’s mom never let her come back to the house so Mickey rarely saw her but he remembers that she never cried, even as a baby. She was quiet and reserved but loud when she needed to be—when someone messed with her. </p><p>Molly shrugs, giggling and knocking shoulders with Mickey as he settles down from the awe. “Holy fucking shit.”</p><p>And it makes him feel better, less alone that there are more people out here, close to him in the same neighborhood that are on the same page as him. People that he grew up with who are going through the motions just like him. It's like coming up for fresh air after drowning alone for so long.</p><p>And maybe, just maybe, he isn’t lagging miles behind everyone else but just taking his time.</p><p>
  <em>Slow and steady.</em>
</p><p>Maybe he could be ready to walk out in the great bright light and stand tall. </p><p>He’s glad that Molly went with him to the Gallaghers because she seems to be getting better and although he’s jealous, maybe less so now, he’s happy that what happened to her didn’t ruin her forever. After months of being caged, she finally took that step and he’s proud. He wishes he could tell her but it’d just be weird and awkward, maybe they’d hug or Molly would slap him for trying. It doesn’t stop him from asking the question that’s been on his mind. </p><p>“Why did you go with me that day to the Gallaghers? I mean, you weren’t really leaving the house then so what changed your mind?”</p><p>She thinks for a second before answering. “You said they were a big family.” She whispers, turning her head to lock eyes with Mickey as he nods, remembering he also called them a cult. “We never had that. I think I wanted that. I still want that.” </p><p><em>It’s true</em>, he guesses.</p><p>There were a lot of people in the Milkovich family, but they weren’t a family. They were just people bound by blood and hated one another by choice. He could understand why Molly would want to go. It’s just been her and Mickey for so long and he gets that she needs more than just him and these four walls. Maybe he didn’t get that before, but he does now. He really gets it now because he has Ian— had Ian. He got to know him, spent time with him, and saw that life could be big and great, not miserable, if you had the right people or enough people.</p><p>Ian has his big family spilling over at the brim and he’s happy, because he has people there with him, always. </p><p>“Ian could be your family if you let him.” Molly seems to read his mind as she speaks out loud. </p><p>“I don’t need more family. I got you and...” He tries to think and Ray comes to mind. “And Ray.” He finishes with fondness in his voice for the older man who pulled him from hell itself. </p><p>“Yeah, but you could have so much more.” Molly groans, close to pulling her hair out at her frustrating brother’s omega mentality. </p><p>“I don’t need more!” He argues, not understanding what she’s missing here.</p><p>Mickey’s always been content on his own, not forcing anything. Sure, it’d be nice to have something like a family, a real one that sticks together and fights like dogs but still has dinner together at the end of the day. He couldn’t tell you how many times he longed for that in his childhood and even in his teen years. But, he’s an adult now and he’s fine. He doesn’t need anyone because he’s fine. </p><p>Fine. That was acceptable, he supposed, to be fine. What a simple thing to be fine— not good, great, or even okay— just fine.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mickey,” Molly sighs, her voice dripping with finality like what she’s about to say could be the end all and be all. And as much as he doesn’t want to, Mickey listens, staring at the door like he’s waiting for someone to come in and poke a hole in this moment. “It’s almost like you’re scared to have something, even it’s halfway decent. Some of us say we’d rather have something no matter how small, even if it’s just halfway but with Ian... I think you could have that if not more. He could give you a lot. I don’t know him that well, but he seems like a good person and you deserve good. As much good as you can get. I guess I’m trying to say, halfway is better than nothing so try meeting him halfway.” Molly doesn’t move and doesn’t try to force Mickey to speak which he’s grateful for.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s right. Ian is a good person. He’s glad it’s not just him that sees that, but that everyone who meets him for five minutes can see it too. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She runs a hand through her hair before standing, the floor creaking under her feet as Mickey stays still, soaking in her words. He never could decide when his younger sister got to be so wise, or where she learned all of this and he doesn’t think to ask before she turns to him again, halfway out the door already. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not saying you need more because maybe you don’t but maybe you want it anyway and I’m saying that’s okay— to want something for yourself.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Isn't it better to just keep your mouth shut?" Mickey asks rhetorically because that's what he's always grown up with— that mentality that wanting something is useless and asking for it makes you look weak.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Maybe, who knows?" Molly smirks, running her knuckles down the door panel distractedly. "Go to work today and find out." She sighs, leaving him alone to think for the first time this morning. </span>
</p><p class="p1">It sounds simple, to just accept the fact that you want something and to go get it. To allow these feelings through and accept them as they come. To even share them with another person. Maybe it wasn’t as complicated as Mickey had always been convinced. It wouldn’t be easy, but maybe Mickey’s fears were irrational and that his past was just that— the past.</p><p class="p1">Still, Mickey had to acknowledge that he had royally screwed up with Ian— again—and it makes him wonder why the red head still tries with him if he’s more trouble than he’s worth. What was Mickey worth?</p><p class="p1">He couldn’t tell you. Probably not much. </p><p class="p1">But, he would go back to work and talk to Ian and maybe they could come to an agreement.</p><p class="p1">There were so many ‘maybes’ floating around and Mickey prayed some of them held a little truth as he flopped back on his bed, completely wound up and wide awake now. </p><hr/><p class="p1">The walk to work seemed to stretch on longer than it usually did but that could've been the anxiety crawling through Mickey's nerves telling him that he was about to venture into uncharted waters— unknown territory.</p><p class="p1">What was he going to say to Ian? What had exactly changed for him in the past two days since he'd last spoken to Ian and left him standing with his face all sad and defeated looking?</p><p class="p1">He couldn't tell you what exactly had changed, all he knew was that a switch had flipped inside of him and he was tired of hiding, tired of being miserable when what he wanted had walked into that record store weeks ago and it was within arms reach now. </p><p class="p1">His shoes scuffed along the side walk as he paced himself before he broke out into a full on sprint. As he rounded he corner, he could see Ian standing against the store with a cigarette between his fingers, lounging in the morning sun. Mickey didn't get the chance to stare in peace any longer before Ian noticed him, startling himself before letting out a stale laugh. </p><p class="p1">"You finally showing up to work now?" His tone is bitter and Mickey has to hang his head low to avoid the disappointing glint of the bright green eyes. </p><p class="p1">"Just needed some time off." Mickey shrugs, not knowing where to start. He looks at Ian's pants, seeing the grass stains on the knees standing out against the light blue jean fabric. </p><p class="p1">"Some time away from me, you mean?" Ian guesses and it's rhetorical so Mickey spares him a fake, rehearsed answer.</p><p class="p1">They both know the truth anyway. </p><p class="p1">Mickey blows air out of his mouth, feeling his shoulders slump and chest deflate. When he looks closer at Ian, he notices a bruise fading on the pale skin of his face and there's a cut that's been wiped clean from the corner of his lip, now scabbing over.</p><p class="p1">"You get in a fight?" Mickey mumbles and when Ian doesn't respond, he steps to the side so that he's almost standing in front of Ian. "You get in fights now?"</p><p class="p1">"Don't act like you know a thing about me." And it comes out harsher than Ian may have intended it to but that doesn't negate the truth to it.</p><p class="p1">Mickey really doesn't know Ian as well as he'd like to think. Everything he thought he knew, he practically made up in his head to make himself feel better about the distance he had intentionally carved between them. </p><p class="p1">"You're telling me this is," Mickey waves his hand in front of Ian's broken face, watching him flinch at the movement, as if Mickey would hit him too. "This is normal?"</p><p class="p1">The older man tries not to take offense to the cold face Ian gives him but it goes straight to his stomach, pooling there as Ian shrugs halfheartedly. </p><p class="p1">"Definitely not my first fight. This is Southside in case you forgot." Ian throws the cigarette down, not bothering to put it out. </p><p class="p1">"I could never forget where we live."</p><p class="p1">There's silence and a lot of hostility in the air as Mickey tries to think of a way to open the conversation up again. </p><p class="p1">"What was your first fight?"</p><p class="p1">Comparing war stories might be a good way for them to bond. Everyone in their neighborhood has a few if not dozens. </p><p class="p1">Ian thinks for a minute with furrowed brows before starting.</p><p class="p1">"Its not my first but it's definitely the worst one." The wind kicks up, knocking the hood off of his head but he doesn't seem to care as he starts again. "I was friends with this guy; Charlie. He was the only other gay guy I knew at the time and I met him through Fiona. He did handy work for restaurants and stuff. He was older so I kind of latched onto him and he became like my mentor. He would take me to bars and clubs, introduce me to the," Ian clears his throat before lowering his voice. "Gay scene."</p><p class="p1">Mickey waits for him to continue and he notices how Ian's face has brightened a little bit and his tone isn't as heavy anymore. </p><p class="p1">"A few months ago, we were walking back from this new bar in the city and we took a shortcut to get back to his place when these four guys came out from the shadows, almost like they were waiting for something and they just started wailing on us. We got a few punches in before Charlie got hit in the back of the head with this flat piece of wood. It broke immediately and he dropped to the ground after that. He didn't move but I thought he was fine. I couldn't think clearly in that moment. My shoulder got dislocated somehow and when they finally left us alone, sitting in an alley bleeding, I went over to him..." Ian stops, his throat feeling wet already. </p><p class="p1">Mickey feels sick to his stomach at the thought of Ian having to go through his own brand of torture but he doesn't make any movements, not wanting to spook Ian in his fragile state.</p><p class="p1">"Charlie wouldn't move, he wouldn't get up. So, I checked the back of his head where he got hit and he had nails sticking out of his skull from the plywood. He bled out in minutes." Ian coughs, wiping his face quickly. "That's my worst fight." He waves his hand in the air to add finality to it and all Mickey wants to do right now is wipe the tears from his face and tell him it's okay but that'd be a lie because all this story has done is prove Mickey's point.</p><p class="p1">They're not safe. </p><p class="p1">"What's yours?" Ian squints away from the sun when he looks up and finds Mickey staring at the ground indecisively. "Mick?" </p><p class="p1">"I'm thinking." Mickey whispers, not stalling but more so trying to figure out which fight was his worst. Sure, there's hundreds but which one is his worst. Mickey rubs at the rough skin on the palm of his hands before sniffling. "I don't know if you could consider it a fight." He moves across the sidewalk until he's leaned against the record store with Ian, their shoulders nearly touching. </p><p class="p1">Ian must be able to sense the shakiness in Mickey's body because he leans himself over a fraction until his shoulder is touching Mickey's, creating a comforting weight for the shorter man. Mickey finds himself smiling down despite the topic of conversation. </p><p class="p1">"My dad had a very unconventional way of dealing with us, you could say." Its an understatement but he powers through it. "He would always use violence and disguise it as love. I heard someone a while back say that abuse and love sort of look the same, not that I was abused..." Mickey trails off because he knows it's a lie but he's never admitted it out loud before. He's fine, he's okay, he's not broken or a victim. Definitely not. "My dad is a piece of shit." He says finally getting to the point the best way he knows how. </p><p class="p1">His nerves are all out of wack and he feels like he could throw up but he swallows it. </p><p class="p1">"Me and my sister, Mandy, we were the babies which meant we stayed home together a lot especially after school." Mickey finds himself twiddling with his thumbs now to distract himself which seems to be working, mixed with the pressure of Ian's body pressed against his. "I used to take a lot of naps after school, it was just something that helped pass time. It's not like I was ever doing homework. But, this one time I woke up was different because I woke up to a belt tied around my throat, dragging me into the kitchen where Mandy was crying on the floor surrounded by a mess. She had tried to cook dinner, apparently and spilled shit everywhere, I don't know. It's not like I could ask, I could barely breathe." He laughs to try to soften the terror he felt in that moment and even now as he retells it. </p><p class="p1">"My dad started screaming but I could barely hear it over the blood pounding in my ears. He started going on about how I was older so this was all my fault and now I would have to pay for it. He shooed Mandy out of the room, she was the only girl and young so he would never hit her. Didn't stop him from going to town on me. He just kept smacking me like I was nothing. I think at one point he looked through me, like I wasn’t even there anymore. I was just a target.”</p><p class="p1">”After I was finished drinking my own blood, he pulled me up and held my hand to the eye of the stove before sticking it there and burning it. I could smell my own skin melting but I knew if I screamed, he'd just make it worse for me so I stood there. When he was done with me, I crawled back to my room on my hands and knees and didn't make a sound for the rest of the night." Mickey huffs loudly, scratching his nose with his thumb idly— something he learned from the years of uncomfortable conversations. </p><p class="p1">When he finally looks up, he sees Ian staring at the sky with glossy eyes. They don’t speak for a few minutes, letting the gravity of everything around them pull them down from the emotional high. </p><p class="p1">"Is that why you moved out?"</p><p class="p1">"Didn't move out so much as I was forced to leave with a literal gun to my head." If Mickey's being honest with Ian, then he might as well be completely honest. </p><p class="p1">"He tried to kill you?" Ian asks, not in shock but just for clarification. There's an edge to Ian's voice as he speaks but Mickey tries to ignore it. </p><p class="p1">"More than once."</p><p class="p1">It's quiet out and the morning sun is still beating down on them but it's not awkward or uncomfortable. Its kind of like they're both just sitting there, taking in the information they've both given one another. Mickey can feel the shift in their dynamic, like he no longer has to hide from Ian or from himself.</p><p class="p1">So, with a small shift, he drops his arm and finds Ian's hand to lace his fingers with his own. </p><p class="p1">No one is around, so he basks in the feel of the large, warm hand of Ian's. Ian squeezes back slightly and Mickey can hear his breathing change. </p><p class="p1">"You gonna tell me why your face looks like that?" Mickey tries again, seeing as they're both more relaxed now having a few more cards on the table. Maybe not the whole deck, but a few more cards is still progress. </p><p class="p1">Ian sighs, his thumb playing with the skin of Mickey hand which sends tingles up the smaller man's arm. "Lip and me went out to celebrate his last week back home and I guess we got fucked up and picked a fight with some assholes."</p><p class="p1">"Is that why your clothes look slept in today?" Its teasing and Ian picks up on it as he tightens his hold on Mickey's small hand.</p><p class="p1">"No, the fight happened a couple days ago."</p><p class="p1">"So, why are you covered in dirt?" Mickey looks down at their hands, the shock still not settling in with him yet that he's standing in public holding another man's hand in broad daylight.</p><p class="p1">"Sometimes I visit Charlie's grave." Ian says, looking at Mickey's face to find judgement and when he finds none, he lets out a tiny breath of relief. </p><p class="p1">"You sleep there?" Mickey wonders, thinking back to the first time he met Ian and he smelled like grass and his clothes were ratty and dirty. </p><p class="p1">"I don't mean to, but yeah sometimes I'll fall asleep there. I like talking to him." </p><p class="p1">Mickey remembers Ian saying something a little ways back about always wanting to be prepared and know what's going on in the world— that the worst thing is not knowing. And if they're clearing the air, now's the time for Mickey's curiosity to be sated. </p><p class="p1">"And the newspapers?" He asks plainly. </p><p class="p1">"I read the obituaries sometimes to see if anyone else like me or Charlie or...you know..." </p><p class="p1">"Like me?"</p><p class="p1">Ian smiles sadly, knowing that it's hard for Mickey to admit but it's the truth so he gives him a singular nod. "You okay with that?"</p><p class="p1">"What? Being gay? Might as well, huh? Sort of stuck with your freckly ass now." It's a simple answer but it brings a familiar weight off of Mickey's chest and Ian looks happier about Mickey's admission.</p><p class="p1">And even though Ian seems happy, something about him still seems off, unhinged, like he’s anxious and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was a look that Mickey knew well because he had spent most of his life seeing that look stare back at him in the mirror.</p><p class="p1">"The fuck is wrong now?" Mickey huffs. </p><p class="p1">Ian shivers a little at Mickey's tone, dropping his hand and taking a few steps away from him— creating distance for the bomb he was inevitably going to drop. </p><p class="p1">"I'm leaving." </p><p class="p1">Something sinks into Mickey's stomach, but something also tries to rise. It feels like someone is playing a game of tetherball in his chest and he can't breathe. </p><p class="p1">"Leaving?" He deadpans, not quite understanding what Ian means but drawing his own conclusions at the same time.</p><p class="p1">Maybe he wants to think that he could be wrong about this but judging by the look on Ian's face, his conclusions are right.</p><p class="p1">"I'm going to California with Lip but j-just for a little while." He stammers, holding his hands out to grab at Mickey but Mickey moves away quickly like they’re going to burn him.</p><p class="p1">"You're leaving." Mickey repeats, feeling every fear, every irrational thought come bubbling back up.</p><p class="p1">He feels his walls Ian had torn down building back up, brick by brick. Everything is coming back to him now and he remembers why he always stays away— people always hurt you and Ian Gallagher was no exception. </p><p class="p1">"Just for a little while." Ian repeats like he’s trying to convince himself, the panic rising inside of him as Mickey seems to be moving farther away, physically and mentally. "Lip thinks it could be good for me to see the scenery out there. The environment is safer for someone like me..like us." He tacks on at the end and Mickey whips his head up quickly. </p><p class="p1">"I'm not like you, Gallagher." And it's true, they're very different, but Mickey knew what he meant.</p><p class="p1">Someone gay. And Mickey was gay. He was also sure that he’s in love with a boy who was leaving him right as he had started to accept the fact that what he felt was fine—<em>wanting more was fine. </em></p><p class="p1">"Again with the ‘Gallagher’ bullshit? My name is Ian! We both know you only use that crap to make it seem like I'm not important to you.“</p><p class="p1">"You're nothing to me."</p><p class="p1">They both freeze and Mickey knows he doesn't mean it. He feels sick that it even came out of his mouth. In reality, he doesn't know why Ian has so much control over him. It's like the universe is begging Mickey to open up and it's using Ian, soft, kind, beautiful Ian to do it.</p><p class="p1">Right about now, Mickey wishes the universe had never sent the red head his way. </p><p class="p1">"You don't mean that."</p><p class="p1">Mickey doesn't but that doesn't stop the word vomit and the brick wall from coming back up.</p><p class="p1">Self preservation— a skill he learned early on.</p><p class="p1">“You don't know shit about me."</p><p class="p1">Ian tries to speak but the only thing that comes out is incoherent mumbles. "Mickey, p-please, it's just for-"</p><p class="p1">"A little while, yeah, I fucking heard you." He snarks, rubbing at his face with both hands.</p><p class="p1">They drop at his side and he stares at the hand Ian once held. He can still feel the heat and the pressure of Ian squeezing it. Mickey pats it against his thigh to get rid of the sensation, deciding to wash himself of Ian Gallagher, right then and there. </p><p class="p1">"I'll be back." Ian takes a step forward and Mickey feels crowded so he tries to take a step back, his shoulder blades colliding with the wall. Ian notices him flinch so he stands in his spot. "Mickey, I'm sorry."</p><p class="p1">And it doesn't do shit but make him feel worse. </p><p class="p1">"You're sorry? No, you're a coward." Mickey snaps, feeling rage circle through him at the words that probably hold meaning but he can't seem to find it in himself to care right now. "You stood there and let me fucking hold your hand, let me open up to you, and you knew you were fucking leaving?" </p><p class="p1">"Mick, I-"</p><p class="p1">"You're a coward, Gallagher. You're running, just like I said you would." He spits.</p><p class="p1">"This is different. I know I told you I wouldn't leave but this is not me running. This is me wanting something better!"</p><p class="p1">"And I'm not better?" Mickey whispers, feeling the reality of Ian's words sink in.</p><p class="p1">Of course he's not better. He's worse for Ian. He's a scared, broken little boy with so much trauma it should come with it's own zip code. Ian needs better— hell, he deserves better.</p><p class="p1">California is better and he'll have Lip watching over him. It's more than the life Mickey could give him, hiding in the shadows, looking over his shoulder, being a secret. </p><p class="p1">
  <em>No one wants to be a secret.</em>
</p><p class="p1">"Send me a fucking post card." Mickey snaps, turning on his heels to grab the door handle of the shop.</p><p class="p1">A hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him backwards until he's chest to chest with Ian, both of them breathing heavily. </p><p class="p1">"You don't get to tell me I'm a coward." Ian whispers, his breath hitting Mickey's face, causing the smaller man to close his eyes, momentarily forgetting where they are. </p><p class="p1">Ian's hands tighten on Mickey's upper arms, slowly moving down to his waist until they're locked and secured behind Mickey's back. </p><p class="p1">"I'm brave and so are you." Ian breathes and before Mickey can open his eyes and stare at the freckles on Ian's nose that he loves so much, he feels lips brush his. </p><p class="p1"><em>His first kiss</em>. </p><p class="p1">Or, his first kiss that mattered. Not with a girl to fake normality or with a boy who tried without his permission before Mickey could reject him.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>With Ian. </em>
</p><p class="p1">The kiss is closed mouthed at first, nothing sexual to it. It's a chaste kiss but Mickey inhales roughly at the feel of it, eventually parting his lips to let Ian mold his to his own. They both press into each other as they as close as they can with Ian running his hands along Mickey's lower back and Mickey placing his hands on Ian's hips, digging his nails into the fabric of his thin hoodie.</p><p class="p1">It feels like coming <em>home</em>. Not home like Southside but home like Ian Gallagher. It’s warm, much like Ian’s hand in his own and it feels right. It doesn’t feel sinful or wrong. He doesn’t think about his father and everything that he’s been spoon fed his entire life. He doesn’t think of God or heaven or hell. He just thinks of Ian, the boys with soft lips who is kissing him. The boy he wants to kiss forever. The boy who is leaving him and this may be his last moment with him forever. </p><p class="p1">Ian runs his tongue across Mickey bottom lip after a minute of peace, silently asking for permission and just as Mickey is about to let him, a car horn sounds, knocking Mickey back a few inches, his teeth clamping down on Ian's lip hastily in fear. </p><p class="p1">Mickey's eyes widen like a deer in headlights as he watches the blood from Ian's cut on his lip start to drip down his chin. Ian wipes at it with the sleeve of his jacket before peering at Mickey through hooded lashes. Their chests are moving in time as they watch each other try to catch their breath.</p><p class="p1">"Why the fuck did you do that?" Mickey speaks up first, looking around to check if they're the only people out this early on the streets. As much as he enjoyed it, his panic overrules anything else and he hates himself for it.</p><p class="p1">They are alone but that doesn't stop him from feeling scared that someone saw, maybe the person in the car. This could get back to his dad and his dad might try to find him and finish the job. His father would kill him without question.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Jesus Christ, how could he be so stupid?</em>
</p><p class="p1">"Because, I couldn't leave without letting you know how I feel." Ian shakes his head as if to berate himself for taking so long to make the move, to go that extra inch or foot, or fucking mile.</p><p class="p1">That's what that kiss was—it was a milestone for them and Mickey might be over the moon, might feel queasy, or hell, he might've gone home later and told Molly all about it.</p><p class="p1">But, knowing that Ian was leaving makes him bury himself deeper behind the brick wall he’s trying to build up. </p><p class="p1">It didn't matter if he was brave, or if Ian was a coward.</p><p class="p1">Ian was leaving. </p><p class="p1">"You're still leaving so none of this matters."</p><p class="p1">"Of course it matters, Mickey. I won't be gone forever." Ian laughs like everything is so ridiculous. </p><p class="p1">"You expect me to wait around o-or what? You want me to chase after you? Follow you to California like some bitch?" Mickey laughs right back at him softly but the sound is chilling, like Mickey is trying to force something, some emotion when he desperately wants to feel nothing.</p><p class="p1">"I don't expect you do anything, Mick." Ian says sadly, holding his head down. "I just wanted you to know how I feel." He shrugs impishly, resigned to getting his point across any further. </p><p class="p1">"You’re so fucking selfish. How you feel doesn't mean shit to me right now, Gallagher." Mickey runs a slick palm across the back of his neck to collect the sweat there before he gazes at Ian out of his peripheral vision. "You enjoy California, alright?" He rocks on the balls of his feet once to appear taller, more put together when he's genuinely just falling apart. </p><p class="p1">"California isn't you."</p><p class="p1">"Yeah, you've made that abundantly clear." Mickey bites. "It's better." He sniffs, scratching his head at the weight of everything around him, suffocating him and he needs to go.</p><p class="p1">"Mickey-"</p><p class="p1">"No, and you're right. You deserve better."</p><p class="p1">"So, do you." Ian holds his head down, watching his shoes play with the broken gravel by his toes. And it hurts that Ian doesn’t deny the fact that California is better even though Mickey knows it is.</p><p class="p1">"I'll be fine, <em>Ian</em>." The use of his name makes Ian stand at full mast, shoulders straight and eyes wide.</p><p class="p1">And though Ian wanted Mickey to acknowledge him, use him name, it feels like Mickey is forgiving him and letting him go with that one word, that one name that Ian had begged him to use earlier.</p><p class="p1">"I'll be back." Ian tries to assure him but it doesn't really do anything because Mickey would understand if he never came back. He would understand if Ian loved California so much that he decided to stay, build a life, a career, and a family there. Mickey would understand.</p><p class="p1">So, he just smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes but his cheeks circle up and his eyes become a shade brighter as he finally exhales.</p><p class="p1">"Don't."</p><p class="p1">Ian freezes, furrowing his brows in confusion but mostly shock. "Don’t what?"</p><p class="p1">"Don't come back." Mickey smiles one more time before turning and walking into the store but this time, Ian doesn't stop him.</p><p class="p1">There's no hand on his shoulder and there's no kiss waiting for him. He just walks inside and sees Ray at the back of the store, organizing shelves. <em>Boogie Shoes by KC &amp; the Sunshine Band</em> is playing in the background while Ray grunts and thrusts his hips to the beat. </p><p class="p1">“You kids don’t know about this. This is disco!” He grins, turning around and seeing Mickey standing in the open space of the shop. </p><p class="p1">“Disco is dead, Ray.” Mickey shouts plainly, hearing his voice crack so he swallows roughly to cover it up. His eyes grow watery the more he stands still.</p><p class="p1">"Was wondering if I'd have to fire you." Ray jokes, turning his head back and forth quickly between Mickey and his work.</p><p class="p1">"I just needed some time." Mickey assures him, walking behind the desk to stop himself from trying to look outside and check if Ian was still there.</p><p class="p1">Because if he was, Mickey might go out there and kiss him again, tell him to stay or come back or whatever else was going on in his head. But if he looked at Ian wasn't there, he would feel worse.</p><p class="p1">So, he doesn't look. </p><p class="p1">Ray doesn't seem to buy it but he doesn't press on, noting Mickey's distant demeanor—clearly in no mood to talk.</p><p class="p1">"It's good you're here. Just spent the last hour cleaning out some old merch. Sunshine quit on me this morning so I need to hire that little high school bastard back. Can you find me his number?" Ray bustles through the store with a box of old records in his hands and tosses them on the desk triumphantly, rubbing the sore muscles in his old shoulders. </p><p class="p1">It makes Mickey sick to think that Ian had showed up early to quit just to avoid Mickey. He hadn't planned on telling him he was leaving. He was going to disappear without a trace and it made Mickey fucking sick. </p><p class="p1">Mickey tries to ignore Ray's mention of Ian and tries to focus on something else. His eyes fall to the box in front of him, noticing one of the albums staring back at him. His fingers move to pick it up, holding it out in front of him. It has a slick layer of dust on it and the corners are a little bent from storage. There are some scratches across the glossy casing but he'd recognize it anywhere. </p><p class="p1">It's the David Bowie 'Heroes' album that Ian had come in looking for on the first day. He thinks about what would’ve happened if he had just followed his own advice and left Ian alone. When he thought about it, he chased Ian in his own small way. Trying to buy that album for him and continuing to talk to him when he could have shut it down. His heartbreaking is his own fault and that’s what fucks him up the most.</p><p class="p1">He lets it drop back into the box before he pushes it over the counter, letting it fall to the floor with a <em>smack. </em>Ray doesn't look impressed but when he sees the tears falling aimlessly down Mickey's cheeks, he doesn't scold him. He just gives him a knowing smile and knocks his knuckles on the desk. </p><p class="p1">"Why don't you take another day?" He suggests and before Mickey can argue, Ray has his hand up. "Just take a day before my record shop looks like a tornado hit it." </p><p class="p1">Mickey nods, pursing his lips in thought. "You sure?"</p><p class="p1">Honestly, Mickey doesn't want to seem weak, but right now he can't be here because everywhere he looks, he sees Ian. He sees Ian sitting in the chair by the desk reading his newspaper, he sees Ian sitting criss-cross on the desk reading comic books and he sees Ian dancing in the free space of the floor, using the broom as a microphone as he belts out every verse of Bohemian Rhapsody. </p><p class="p1">Ian is all over this place. Ian is permanently in his brain— engraved in his memory. </p><p class="p1">"Yeah, go on. I'll call the little teen punk and get him down here. He's been begging for his job back." Ray smirks and Mickey nods before heading around the desk to the door.</p><p class="p1">"Hey, Mickey?" Ray calls out. </p><p class="p1">Mickey turns around, silently praying to leave before the bridge in his mind between crying and staying upright falls. </p><p class="p1">"You know I love you, right?" And Mickey knows, he's just never heard Ray say the words. "I mean, you're the closest thing I got to a son."</p><p class="p1">Mickey always knew that Ray never had any kids and his family was estranged so he was aware that Ray didn't have many people. Neither did Mickey. They were two sides of the same coin, really. </p><p class="p1">"You're the closest thing I have to a dad." Mickey admits, rubbing at his eyes.</p><p class="p1">Ray had done more for him than his own father and Mickey kind of felt bad for his other siblings since they didn't have a Ray in their life like he did.  </p><p class="p1">And Ray looks like he might tear up at that so Mickey nods once before heading outside only to find the sidewalk empty, no trace of Ian Gallagher to be found except the cigarette bud on the ground, the ember still lit up but quickly dying just like Mickey. </p><p class="p1">Mickey stands still in the same spot where he met and said goodbye to Ian before he starts walking home, feeling even more defeated than when he first got here.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>mickey goes back and forth a lot with accepting his sexuality a lot because every so often he feels safe around ian and then he's reminded of the dangers of being gay in his neighborhood and also during this time period. he has built his life on surviving and self preservation but its human instinct to want to be happy so he flip flops. he has set limitations and rules and he tries to test them for ian. remember that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey has a tough walk back home and an even tougher talk at home.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry for the hiatus but after posting chapter 11, i struggled to figure out how i would continue the story with ian gone briefly. hopefully i can post regularly now that i’ve taken some time and hopefully you all receive it well! i’m gonna try to do right by ian and mickey for the sake of finding a good ending for them. thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Mickey made it back to his building, it was still really early even though he had taken his time walking, counting the steps, and stopping to catch his breath before the tears in his eyes could fall. He wouldn't cry, not over this. It wasn't something he could let happen. He could keep his chin straight ahead and not let his head drop.</p><p>Not today. </p><p>For whatever reason, even though he'd lived here for years, his building looked different. Everything seemed to look different as he walked his usual route and that's because nothing had changed,<em> just the way he looked at it. </em>Gallagher had managed to pull his head up out of the water and in the time he knew him, the freckly kid had made him look at things he never noticed before like the trees, though there weren't very many. Mickey noticed how the trees were dying but with spring just starting, they would be back in full form no doubt. But today, they were dying. </p><p>And his building looked run down. The paint on the sides was chipping and the windows were foggy from grime. Mickey didn't care about these things before and though they were small things, they were proof that Ian had opened his eyes in more ways than one. </p><p>Passing by Marcus at the front desk with his head down, he tried to ignore his heart trying to beat out of the front of his chest. </p><p>“Short day, Mr. Milkobitch?” Marcus asked in a snarky tone but he wasn’t in the mood to crush any skulls so he kept moving, endlessly with no purpose, through the lobby and up the stairs. </p><p>He counted the times his feet slapped the floor until he finally reached the top. The counting seemed to take his mind off of what he was feeling for the time being until he settled up and leaned against the wall for a second. And then it was back. That crushing weight in his mind, body, and soul. God, he felt so fucking dramatic right now. He would kick his own ass if he saw himself walking down the street. Pitiful fucking excuse. <em>A waste of skin</em>— his father would say. </p><p>
  <em>His father. </em>
</p><p>He couldn’t shake the feeling that right now his father was sitting on the couch of his childhood home, loading a .41 magnum right now, ready to hunt down his queer son and shoot him where he stood. </p><p>Mickey probably wouldn’t stop him because the idea of the earth swallowing him whole as he took an indefinite nap in the dirt didn’t sound as bad as what he was feeling right now. Why did he have to be so fucking sensitive all the time? He would never admit it to anyone else but Mickey was soft. In his own head, at least. He was soft and he wished he wasn’t. That was one of the two things he wished he could change about himself. The other thing he wished he could change was painfully obvious. </p><p>But he liked what he liked and unfortunately he felt like that <em>did</em> make him a bitch. </p><p>He was raised by his mother, unlike his other siblings. His mother was patient and kind and giving. She paid more attention to Mickey then she did to her other kids which probably made her feel guilty but it made Mickey feel warm. </p><p>
  <em>Loved even. </em>
</p><p>As embarrassing as it was to say, he just wanted to feel loved like that again.</p><p>He felt his eyes start to sting so he pressed the heels of his palms against the lids and groaned, wanting the pain to leave his body in some physical manner. Maybe he just needed to hit something— or someone. </p><p>He hears someone clear their throat and he looks across the hall to see Hector leaning out of the fogged window, smoking like a chimney before he’s even had breakfast, no doubt. </p><p>“Rough day at the office?” He smirks, blowing out a chain of smoke and waving his hand around before it has a chance to touch the smoke alarm in the ceiling. </p><p>“If you could call it that.” Mickey breathes out, squaring his shoulders in a way that makes him appear tougher, more put together. </p><p>“The office?” </p><p>“A rough day.” </p><p>Hector hums before holding the cigarette out to Mickey in a way of offering peace. Before Mickey can decline— because all he wants to do is fucking go inside and sink into his bed— Hector clicks his tongue. </p><p>“Fucking take it away from me before I kill myself with it.” </p><p>And it’s the first thing that’s made Mickey genuinely smile in what feels like hours, days, weeks, months. “Rough day at the office?” He retorts smartly. </p><p>“Rough day in the life.” Hector smirks, gesturing the cigarette back in Mickey’s direction. </p><p>“Alright, alright, you fucking punk.” He pulls himself off the wall and stalks over to lean against the window with Hector who grins victoriously like he’s managed to corrupt Mickey into a dangerous game. “You know these things kill you, right?” He asks sarcastically before taking a long toke. It feels like fire in his lungs but at least the pain in his body is no longer caused by Ian Gallagher. </p><p>The name sounds so far away now to him, just like Ian who is probably getting on a plane to California now, no doubt. </p><p>“That’s kinda the point, wise ass.” Hector laughs but it bounces off the walls and shrinks into a corner somewhere which doesn’t sit right with Mickey. </p><p>“You got a death wish?” </p><p>“Don’t you?” </p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond and Hector sits with the silence they’ve created for a moment before he speaks again. “Why aren’t you at work?” </p><p>Mickey sighs, feeling his chest tighten again. </p><p>“Just didn’t feel like earning money today, Heck.” He calls the man by his self proclaimed nickname to soften the reality behind his answer. He just really didn’t feel like seeing many people today after the morning he’d had. </p><p>“You must have made peace with being a no good broke your whole life then, huh?” </p><p>“It’s how I was raised.” Mickey shrugs because it’s the truth. The Milkoviches had money but they never earned it. It was normally something they stole from people who had more than them. Everyone had more than them when Mickey was growing up. That much he remembered. </p><p>“Yeah, but it ain’t who you are.” </p><p>That gets a rise out of Mickey for some reason. </p><p>“What do you know about who I am?” He scratches his eyebrow to take the attention off of literally any part of his face right now that’s possibly showing his full deck of losing cards. </p><p>“Enough, I’d say.” </p><p>“And you found this out how? By smoking alone in a hallway for the past 15 years so your wife doesn’t catch you?” </p><p>And that makes Hector smile. But it’s a sad smile. </p><p>“Exactly.” Mickey says, turning his head to the side before taking another hit of the cigarette that’s slowly dying between his thumb and forefinger. </p><p>“Me and Maria been together for years, you know?” Mickey nods because yes, he does know. “You learn a lot about a person when you’re with them for that long but Maria knew everything she needed to know about me long before we got married.” </p><p>“How does that work?” </p><p>Hector shrugs, giving him a vague look before he speaks again. “You’ve always been a sad person, Mick but lately you’ve looked borderline suicidal, if I can speak freely.” </p><p>Mickey snorts at his neighbor’s choice of words. Growing up, Mickey was always told that only pussies commit suicide so he never once considered it much until he was in his late teens. There were many times Mickey wished he was wiped from this earth, washed clean of any damage he had left in his wake. </p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>Hector sighs, taking a step off the wall to stand in front of Mickey. “This about the Gallagher kid?”</p><p>It stuns Mickey, to hear Hector talk about Ian in a way that suggests he’s familiar with him. </p><p>“Who the fuck told your nosy ass about Gallagher?” </p><p>“Molly.” </p><p>And it looks could kill right now, the floorboards would be in splinters right now the way he’s sending daggers through them. </p><p>“Fucking swear to Christ...” </p><p>“Don’t blame her. She’s cooped up a lot and sometimes she hears me wondering around out here so she stops for a smoke. Keeps me company, that one.” Hector explains before Mickey can bum rush the apartment and murder his sister in cold blood. </p><p>“Still.” Mickey huffs like a scolded child. </p><p>“Tell me about this Gallagher.” </p><p>“Which one? There’s like...” He trails off to count on his fingers for a moment. “80 of them.” He finishes with pinched eyebrows.  </p><p>“The one with the dashing green eyes that kind of look like blue in the correct lighting.” Hector says and Mickey gives him a look that says <em>what the fuck. “</em>Molly’s words, not mine.” He waves his hands with wide eyes. </p><p>“Fuck off, respectfully.” </p><p>“I’m serious.” Hector shouts. </p><p>“So am I.” Mickey deadpans before running his knuckles on the windowsill. The silence between them almost swallows him whole and when he peers up, Hector looks up at him expectedly. “Dear God, man. I mean there ain’t much to say. I worked with the kid for a little while at the record store and that’s that.” </p><p>“Worked?”</p><p>”Yeah, he quit today. Worked. Past tense. Do you need a fucking dictionary?”</p><p>“Fucking smart ass kids.” Hector groans but collects himself. Mickey looks at the older man and notices that his beard is starting to gray a little at the center edges because Hector probably refuses to trim it. “That why you look like a kicked puppy? Cuz your friend quit on you?” </p><p>“Do I look like a pussy?” Hector tilts his head as if to say <em>yeah</em> and Mickey throws the cigarette down and crushes it under his boot with force as he stares Hector in the eyes.</p><p>“That all he was to you? Coworker?” </p><p>Mickey feels his blood run cold at the question as if Hector can read him that easily. He couldn’t possibly. Hector is so oblivious, he once walked out of his apartment stark naked before Mickey caught him and told him to put some clothes on. The man was practically senile. </p><p>“What else would he be?” </p><p>“That’s for you to decide.” </p><p>It’s loaded. Almost like Hector has a gun in his hand, aimed at Mickey as he fires back responses that feel an inch thick, driving into his skin with force. </p><p>“He’s nothing.” Mickey bites coldly.</p><p>It’s not true. Ian was everything at once all rolled into one person who was far too good for the Southside or anything it had to offer. He couldn’t find it in himself to be mad at the asshole for leaving it behind for brighter sunsets and deeper sunrises. Mickey couldn’t help but feel himself smile at the sight of Ian experiencing true California sun for the first time. He could picture it. Ian standing there, arms out, face pointing at the sky as the heat blistered him to no ends. Ian wouldn’t wear sunscreen and he’d burn on his first day there but Ian wouldn’t care much either. He’d take it with a smile. </p><p>“Doesn’t seem like nothing to me, Señor.” Hector shrugs a little before falling back to the wall. </p><p>“What do you know?” Mickey feels his blood turn cold again at the prodding of Hector. “You’re a hermit who only speaks to his wife if they run out of milk or if the cable is being funky.” And Mickey feels bad before he even finishes saying it but he can’t take it back now. Not that he’d want to anyway. </p><p>But Hector just smiles again. “You learn a lot when you watch people. I’ve been doing that for years.” </p><p>“And what did you learn?” Mickey is afraid of the answer but he asks anyway. </p><p>“Everyone is lonely.” </p><p>“Even you?” </p><p>“Especially me.” Hector chuckles, looking towards his door with certainty that when he walks back inside to his home, he’ll still be lonely. He will always be lonely, much like Mickey in that respect. </p><p>“You seem lonely.” Mickey shrugs. </p><p>“I didn’t come from a big family like the Gallaghers but what I do know about everyone, regardless of whether they have a big family or not, is that everyone is lonely.” Hector runs a hand through his thick black hair as he sighs, probably thinking about his own family that he didn’t have anymore. Just Maria.  </p><p>“You know the Gallaghers?” Mickey blanches a little at that bit. </p><p>“That Debbie used to come into my shop everyday for a week asking for any flowers we had that were close to dying so she could plant a garden in their front yard. Carl would ask for old broken gardening tools and every time he managed to get his hands on some, Fiona would come storming in a few hours later with them in her hand, complaining about how the kid managed to turn them into some sort of weapon.” Hector grins at the memory but it quickly dies on his face. </p><p>“The Gallaghers are a big family.” Mickey states the obvious, not knowing much else he could say. </p><p>“Big families don’t mean shit nowadays.” Hector says. “Not like they used to.” </p><p>“What do you mean by that? They seem to be getting on fine with each other.” It was something that kept him going, knowing that Ian wouldn’t be alone. That he’d have his siblings to be there for him and look after him and make sure he didn’t feel alone for too long. He never wanted Ian to feel what he felt for most of his life. Ian had people. He would never be alone. </p><p>
  <span class="s1">“There are people who are lonely and they’re always surrounding themselves with people but you can tell. They walk around carrying this invisible suitcase called pain and even though no one can see it, they try to hide it anyway because it’s terrifying for them to have to even know about it— to know it’s there. They keep that suitcase shut—locked, because they think that if they open it one day, it’ll swallow them whole and there’ll be nothing left. The only thing scarier than that suitcase is the thought that it could one day open and leave you with nothing. At least if it’s there, trapped inside you, you have something to hold onto.” Hector finishes with a head tilt and that’s that. </span>
</p><p>“The fuck?” Mickey blinks, trying to process everything Hector said. </p><p>“You may think Gallagher is nothing to you, and maybe he is— nothing, I mean. But, if you felt a fraction less lonely around him, I’d say that’s something worth holding onto. Everyone is lonely, but it doesn’t have to be permanent.” Hector says, taking a few steps off the wall and walking to his door. </p><p>Mickey stops him with an aching question he desperately needs answered. “Did you always feel lonely? Before Maria?” He needs to know if this feeling will ever go away for him. He needs hope. </p><p>“What makes you think I’m not lonely <em>with</em> Maria?” Hector tightens his lips into a line and nods once before opening the door and pouring himself into his apartment, leaving Mickey outside in the hallway feeling colder, and far more hopeless, than he’s felt in a long time. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ian finds that California is a sunny state but shit gets cloudy real fuckin’ fast.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>California was an adjustment for Ian after the initial jet lag wore off and he could see straight enough. He quickly learned what Lip’s routine was like in the new world he had made for himself.</p><p>Lip started his day around 10am if he could drag himself out of the king size bed he managed to own. It was probably bigger than the bed’s of every Gallagher put together. Most of them owned twin sized beds— Ian included so seeing Lip own something that nice was shocking but also good. Lip deserved to have something nice for once. Ian knew that much.</p><p>After waking up, Lip would start his day with a shot of vodka and after that, four more. It didn’t bother Ian to see his brother drinking so much so early— He grew up with Frank. What bothered him was how easy it was for Lip to knock them back. It was like water to him. But, Ian didn’t comment on it because he was a guest and this was Lip’s new life he had built for himself. After “breakfast” Lip would stew in his living room reading transcripts until noon before he would answer calls and put out fires at the firm. Lip was needed and he knew Lip liked being needed to a certain degree.</p><p>Around two in the afternoon, Lip would head out for hours saying he had to go down to the office but around six he would come back with sweat in his hairline and his cuff links undone with the smell of liquor on his breath. This went on for a few weeks but Ian kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, watching his older brother carefully. </p><p>When he finally broached the subject, Lip just cackled.</p><p>“What are you stressing about me for? You’re in California, one of the most progressive states this side of the Pacific ocean. Go out, get your dick wet, make some friends. Worrying about me will make you age 20 years older and you ain’t getting any younger.” Lip waltzed into the kitchen, opened up a new bottle of vodka, and chugged until he puked later that day with the sun still setting. </p><p>That’s when he started to miss Mickey. He’d think about him a lot, wonder what he was doing, how Molly was, what Ray was up to, everything that touched Mickey in some way, he wondered about it. It was like his brain was stuck on a never ending loop of Mickey fucking Milkovich. The Southside punk who had kissed him back outside of the record store that morning before he boarded a plane with a less than satisfactory goodbye.</p><p>Saying goodbye to his family was hard too but they knew he’d be back some day when he’d healed and found himself again. Fiona was practically dragging him out the door by his ear when he said that he didn’t want to leave everything behind. But they knew he hadn’t had a chance to heal after Charlie.</p><p>Charlie would’ve liked Mickey, Ian thought. They’d banter and toss back insults like cheap beer but they’d get along well enough. Ian wishes he could have introduced Mickey to Charlie. Maybe Charlie could’ve opened Mickey’s eyes like he did for Ian. Ian was hopeless in that respect— always wishing for dead dreams.</p><p><em>Literally</em>.</p><p>He really missed Charlie. Some days were better than most. Eventually his guilt would get the better of him and he’d feel himself sinking into a pit but something would pull him out. For a while that something was Mickey. Mickey’s smile. Mickey’s biting remarks like the coldest winters. Southside snow had nothing on Mickey’s smart mouth.</p><p><em>Everything came back to Mickey</em>.</p><p>On a random Thursday night, Lip had had enough of Ian’s laying around.</p><p>“California ain’t here for you to ignore. I brought you here so you could live, not burn holes in my goddamn television and mope over a Milkovich. Been there, done that.”</p><p>Ian knew that Lip had messed around with Mandy Milkovich back in high school and as far as he knew it wasn’t serious, or at least that’s how Lip tells it. Ian always figured Lip was downplaying it like he did most things.</p><p>But that was all it took for Ian to drag himself into a shower and put on a clean shirt that didn’t have holes and rips in the neck ring. He put on some pants that weren’t baggy and even fixed his hair to make himself look like he cared what other people thought of him.</p><p>“Here.” Lip stood in the middle of the living room when Ian walked out of the bathroom, pressed and ready. He had a watch in his hands, shoving it towards Ian.</p><p>It was gold and looked like it was worth more than the Gallagher home before the family had put a few dents in the walls.</p><p>“Lip, did you steal this?” Ian side-eyed him, glancing back and forth between the opulence and his brother.</p><p>Lip squinted, annoyed. “No, asshole. It was a gift. Take it before I beat you with it, please.” Exasperated, he shoved it at Ian again who just looked at the watch in slight shock.</p><p>“What kind of friends you got that are trusting you with nice shit like this?”</p><p>“Friends who don’t know me well enough.”</p><p>That much was true.</p><p>Ian took the watch finally and latched the buckle around his wrist, feeling the metal tug at the faint hairs on his pale skin a little before he adjusted it better. “It’s nice.” He shrugged, watching the light hit the steely gold.</p><p>“It’s expensive so don’t hock it. And if you do, make sure you get me a new bottle of vodka. I’m out.” He glanced at the watch before turning away and going back into the kitchen with a water bottle in his hand.</p><p>Ian snorted at his brother’s nonchalant behavior. “This may be the first time I’ve seen you drink something other than alcohol.” He joked.</p><p>Lip handed him the water bottle with the cap flipped open and when Ian caught a whiff, it set his nose hairs on fire. He gagged, “Don’t fucking light a match tonight.”</p><p>“Ha!” Lip squawked. “My blood alcohol content hasn’t been in the single digits since I was 17.”</p><p>“Can you even see me clearly right now?” Ian waved his hand with the watch on his wrist and felt the heavy band slide up and down his arm a little.</p><p>“I can see three of you, in fact.” Lip teetered before taking a quick sip of the bottle and turning on his heel to walk out of the door. Ian followed close behind, careful enough so that he could catch his brother before he passed out in the streets.</p><p>When they got to the bar, Ian noticed that it was full of a lot of colorful people. Colorful in the sense that it seemed more like one giant party. People were dancing, laughing, mingling, and even singing karaoke on the small stage in the front. This didn’t seem like Lip’s scene but Ian was willing to give it a chance if it made his brother happy to see him outside the apartment.</p><p>Being in the bar made Ian think of the Alibi back home. It made him think of Kev standing behind the slab of wood that was covered in used coasters and peanut shells, Vee doing rounds on tables and collecting empty glasses along the way. He felt a little homesick at the prospect of being in a new bar. It almost felt like he was cheating on them a little bit. But Lip’s eager smile as he ordered them pints of beer to start made him feel more at ease with the situation.</p><p>“So...” Lip grinned, sweat already forming on his brow line from the close proximity of everyone and the California evening heat.</p><p>“It’s cool.” Ian offered, shrugging as he chugged his beer.</p><p>“Cool?” Lip asks, deflating a little. “C’mon, I thought you liked this kind of shit.” When Ian frowns in confusion, Lip runs his hands down his full glass before turning toward his younger brother. “I didn’t bring you here for my benefit, Ian.”</p><p>And that’s when Ian looks around at the people. Bright colored feather boas sit on the necks of people, a pride flag behind the bar guarding a framed picture of Harvey Milk as someone sings a Queen song on the stage.</p><p>“You brought me to a goddamn gay bar?” Ian growls, feeling his chest get tight with rage. He hadn’t been to a bar like this since...<em>since</em>...</p><p>“I know losing Charlie was hard but you gotta get back out there eventually, Ian.”</p><p>And what the fuck did Lip know about losing someone?</p><p>“Losing Charlie? That’s what you call it?” Ian stands from the stool he’s been planted on and peers down at his annoying idiotic brother. “I didn’t fucking misplace him like he was a pair of socks, Lip.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s not what I-“</p><p>“He was fucking ripped from my hands.” Ian shouts, feeling his throat go raw all of a sudden.</p><p>“Ian, I know, okay, I know what it’s-“</p><p>“Finish the sentence, please I dare you. I’ve been waiting to deck your dumbass for years now.” Ian grits out through his teeth as he watches Lip’s face fall slightly before he’s cracking his neck and looking back at Ian with sad eyes.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” He says simply and it does nothing for Ian’s rising anger. It ebbs in his chest like the end of a lit cigar that refuses to go out. </p><p>“You know, you say you know what it’s like to lose someone, Lip and that might be true but the only reason you lose people is because you push them away.” Ian shamelessly states and it’s true, they both know it’s true. Lip has always been scared of commitment while Ian practically ran towards it as if it was driving away from him. <em>For the most part. </em></p><p>“Just like you pushed Mickey away?” Lip counters back with twice as much venom in his tone. “You running away to California? You don’t think that’s pushing him away?”</p><p>“I didn’t run awa-“</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Ian.” Lip bites out, killing any denial Ian had left in him. “We both know you didn’t come here for the fucking scenery or the pleasure of watching your dead beat brother getting shitfaced every day.”</p><p>And Lip finally acknowledges what he’s been pushing down ever since he let Ian see his new life.</p><p>“Why do you drink so much?”</p><p>There are about 30 different answers swimming around in Lip’s head right now but he can only think of one that seems appropriate.</p><p>“Because for once in my life I don’t have to worry about anyone else but me.” Lip sighs, looking towards his full glass that’s collecting condensation. “And its fucking exhausting.”</p><p>“What is?” Ian asks, taking a seat at his abandoned stool again. It’s not often his brother opens up so when Ian feels Lip’s bridge start to fold, he takes advantage of that.</p><p>“Being alone with myself, my thoughts, my own fucking problems.” Lip runs a shaky hand through his hair before looking at Ian with bloodshot eyes and for the first time since he’s been here, Lip’s eyes aren’t bloodshot from the alcohol.</p><p>“Why don’t you move back home?” Ian retorts. If Lip was so lonely, why was he torturing himself by living so far away, alone.</p><p>“To what? Southside?” Lip snorts. “To a house that’s overrun by people who have their own shit going on? No, it’s just easier if I’m here. I cant help anyone with the way I am now.” Its sad but Lip knows that if he went home, he would just make shit worse for everyone. Fiona had enough going on without worrying about watching Lip drink himself into a coma most days. </p><p>“How do you work when you’re like this? I mean I haven’t seen you be sober for a moment since the plane landed.” Ian runs at his chin, concern settling in again and for once, he welcomes it. He doesn’t push it away under the guise that Lip can handle himself because clearly, as he sits with him now, in his broken state, he knows he can’t. </p><p>“Ever heard of a functioning alcoholic?” Lip pulls his mouth into a line. “Yeah, that’s what my sponsor calls it.” </p><p>“You have a fucking sponsor? Wait, you’re in AA? Why the fuck are you drinking right now?” Ian fires questions at him like a speed racer going 85 in a strictly 50 zone.  </p><p>“Slow the fuck down.” Lip berates him, glancing sideways to make sure no one else is listening. It’s embarrassing enough that his brother, who used to look at him like a superhero, is now looking at him like he’s a fucking broken toy.</p><p>“Well?” Ian presses.</p><p>Lip feels his leg bouncing up and down as he groans. “I might’ve showed up to a few court hearings drunk and my boss told me I had to go to some meetings to get corporate off my back.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal but they both know it is. </p><p>“Don’t you have to be sober to be in alcoholics anonymous?” Ian narrows his eyes.</p><p>“Fuck, no. I barely even go to the meetings sober. I show up, get them to sign my mandate papers, take my sober chips, and leave. As long as I’m showing everyone in legal that I’m kinda trying, they leave me the fuck alone.” Lip waves his arm in front of him wildly. </p><p>“That’s lying.” Ian reprimands and it makes Lip smile softly. Always the boy scout, his brother. Even though they could never afford boy scouts when they were kids, Ian loved the order of it all. The organization and honor. The strong foundations and morals it offered. </p><p>“We grew up in Southside, in case you forgot. Lying is not that hard to do when you don’t have a conscience.” Lip reminds him as if he could forget but some part of that statement bugs Ian. </p><p>“You have a conscience, Lip.”</p><p>”I don’t think so.” Lip bites his top lip when he feels himself start to shake again. “At least, not anymore.” </p><p>It’s almost like the bar gets staggeringly quiet after that even though the people are still moving around him and the music is still blaring in his eardrums. It’s just too fucking quiet. </p><p>Lip orders a few more drinks— maybe more. Ian lost count after 7. </p><p>They don’t say much to each other after that but they’re both in their own heads on the walk home when Ian eventually grabs Lip off the stool and pours him onto the sidewalk as they balance on each other the whole way back to Lip’s home. </p><p>As Ian helps him up the stairs, he hears Lip start to sniffle but he ignores it. His brother was never one for letting people watch him cry. He leads him into his room, letting him land freely on his giant bed before taking his shoes off for him.</p><p>Right as Ian turns around to leave, he hears Lip mumble something drunkenly. </p><p>“What?” Ian whispers in the dark, watching Lip fumble around until he lands on his stomach, shoving one arm under his pillow for extra volume. </p><p>“You’re a good person, Ian. Better than me.” He slurs before shoving his face in the pillow, letting the darkness get darker. </p><p>With that said, Ian leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him. As he walks into the living room to pull the couch out into a makeshift bed for the night, he feels regret sink in his stomach again at what Lip had said earlier in one of his first sober moments in a while. There was some truth to it, he couldn’t deny and he’d be an idiot if he did. </p><p>The thought creeps in that he did run away from Southside— from Mickey— and he had convinced himself that he hadn’t for way too long. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ray struggles too.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mention of drug use and sexual assault.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had already been a few weeks since Ian left and Mickey thought he was semi-holding it together. He was getting through the day just fine without snapping at too many customers, even when they asked for help with finding an album by some obscure artist that he was sure was a made up name. </p><p>That was until one day. It was sweltering hot and the air conditioning in the shop had broken down causing Mickey to strip himself all the way down to his white undershirt which was practically see through with all the sweat he had collected that day. </p><p>Some lanky ass kid with ripped sleeves and patches all over his jeans saddled up to Mickey’s check out desk with an enormous sigh. He looked at Mickey, waiting for him to finish reading whatever magazine he had on the desk as Mickey ignored him, trying so hard  not to inhale the musky cologne the kid wore. </p><p>Finally the kid cleared his throat which only caused Mickey to flip the page blatantly, just to show the kid he was ignoring him. </p><p>“Hey.” The kid raised his voice but all Mickey offered was a flinch of his expressive brows. “You guys got Van Halen?” </p><p>
  <em>Now what the fuck kind of question is that? </em>
</p><p>”Van who?” Mickey mumbled, keeping his eyes trained on the words in the magazine he found laying behind the desk that morning. It was about nature and shit and he found that he kind of liked the pictures, even if he couldn’t pronounce half the words in it. He wasn’t stupid, by any means. But half of this shit just looked like someone ate the alphabet and spit it out into a napkin. </p><p>“Van. Halen.” The guy seethed which caused Mickey to smirk. </p><p>“If it ain’t in the V’s then no.” Mickey sighed heavily, spotting a picture of a weeping willow tree in the top left corner of the article he found out of boredom.</p><p>“What kind of fucking record shop doesn’t have-“ He doesn't get to finish before Mickey rolls up the magazine and slaps the desk with it harshly causing the kid to jump back a step.    </p><p>“When did the album come out?” He stares at the kid who looks like he’s going to go running for the hills at any slight movement. </p><p>“Huh?” The kid falters. </p><p>“Listen, if it’s been out for less than 6 months, then try a corporate record shop. This is a privately owned shop. We only get the left over marked down shit from the corporate shops who try to peddle their unsold crap.” Mickey explains roughly, unrolling the magazine and flipping back to the page he had gazed at briefly before he was interrupted. </p><p>“Thanks.” The kid mumbles and Mickey gives him a salute without looking up. He only knows the kid is gone when he can no longer smell the musk wafting up into his space and the sound of the shop bell chiming. </p><p>Hunched over the desk, Mickey realizes that his back is starting to hurt from the position and goes to stand and stretch. It’s that moment with his hands over his heads and his back arched that Ray chooses to come out of the stockroom with a box full of old records. </p><p>“You scare away another customer?” Ray shouts, clearly not in the mood but really when is he ever? “Boy, I swear on Earth, Wind and Fire. You scare another paying customer away it’s coming out of your check.” He gripes, dropping the box on the desk in front of Mickey. </p><p>“He wanted the Van Halen album.” Mickey grumbles, taking his seat on the stool again as he flips through the old, weathered records stacked in the confines. </p><p>“Who the fuck is...” Ray trails off, his eyebrows pinched in disgust as he waves his right hand in the air. </p><p>“Exactly.” Mickey quips, finding the Rumors album by Fleetwood Mac sitting in the middle of the pile and plucked it up, holding it to his chest and giving Ray semi-wide eyes. </p><p>“It’s yours.” Ray shrugs, telling him to pick a few more out before he throws them in the dumpster for Salvation Army to take.</p><p>Mickey ends up with three more albums: The Troubleman Soundtrack album by Marvin Gaye, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John and finally, but not in any ironic fashion, he found Hotel California by the Eagles. He was excited to get back home and put them on as he laid and wallowed for the night, like he did every night for the past month. It was new to him but also, not unlike his life before Ian Gallagher stepped into it. </p><p>“You doing okay, kid?” Theres an edge in Ray’s voice so Mickey tears his eyes away from the records in front of him to see the older man leaning on the pole by the desk. It came with the foundation of the building and they were told that if the pole ever fell, the building would collapse which is why Ray always smacked Mickey if he leaned on it. </p><p>“I’m great.” He purses his lips and shakes his head a little as if to say <em>why the fuck are you asking me that? </em></p><p><em>“</em>You just seem like you’re barely holding on.” Ray comments on Mickey’s pitiful demeanor that’s been at an all time high lately and it makes Mickey’s eyes close in peace before he explodes on the man. </p><p>“Ray...” He drawls out in a warning tone but the old man apparently isn’t having any of it. </p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ Ray me, boy. Now, I told your ass weeks ago that if you needed to take some time, maybe go on a vacation with Molly that you could! But instead, there you were, in that chair behind that desk the next day like nothing even happened.” </p><p>“That’s because nothing did happen.” </p><p>“So on top of being a pussy, you’re also a liar. Not a good start, Mick.” Ray goads him a little and it’s a frustrating feeling to have. </p><p>Frustrating in the sense that people seem to know more about his and Ian’s friendship or relationship... whatever it was... than they did. Mickey thought he had more control over this situation than he actually did. He thought he was being discrete with his feelings for Ian but Hector and Ray and Molly have all just shot that horse in the face. </p><p>“Can we please just not do this?” Mickey groans, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed. </p><p>Ray levels him with a hard look that creases his forehead a little more than usual. “You and me have always been honest with each other and that ain’t changing now.” </p><p>Mickey feels his neck get hot under the pressure of telling the truth. </p><p>“You can lie to yourself, kid but the day you start lying to me of all people is a day you don’t come back from.” Ray takes a step towards the counter and Mickey feels himself scoot backwards an inch to create a minute barrier. </p><p>“I’ve lied to you before.” He mumbles. </p><p>Ray scratches at the small patchy beard on his cheek with his middle finger extended out as if to say <em>fuck off. “</em>Thats not something you admit to your employer, dumbass.” </p><p>Mickey sighs and he feels the air get stuck in his throat in the way out. </p><p>“I say this because I love you— and don’t fucking roll your eyes at me, I’m serious. You come from a very colorful background.” </p><p>“One way of fucking putting it.” </p><p>“Watch your mouth.” Ray huffs quietly before he realizes he’s lost the plot. “What I was trying to say is, you’ve had it rough and for most of your life I’m sure you convinced yourself that it was normal. That living life just consisted of you being treated like dirt and abandoned. But, I’m gonna let you know that you don’t have to let people walk away in order to save yourself the hurt. It’s okay to tell people to stay and love you, if that’s what you want.” Ray clears his throat before finally looking up from the desk only to see Mickey with scrunched brows as if the idea is so foreign to him, it’s physically hurting him to imagine it. </p><p>“And if they leave anyway?” Mickey barely gets the power to ask before he feels his exterior wall breaking and it’s clear on his face. </p><p>“Then you <em>let</em> them.” Ray shouts. “You don’t need anybody that don’t need you, Mickey.” </p><p>“I don’t need anyone.” Mickey implies but he knows it’s not the truth. He needs Molly and he needs Ray and he thought that he needed Ian. Maybe he still does. </p><p>“No, that’s just what you’ve told yourself because the people who treated you like crap made you feel alone. You’re not alone.” Ray shrugs to himself to gesture and Mickey know he had him. </p><p>“Is this another one of your ‘you are not your abuse’ talks?” Mickey scoffs and turns his head to the side to avoid Ray’s eyes. </p><p>“I’ll keep having that talk with you till it’s drilled into your thick ass skull.” Ray reaches over and pokes the side of Mickey’s head to get his attention which doesn’t work. Mickey is still focusing on a random napkin that’s just blowing in the wind out on the sidewalk. </p><p>“Yeah.” Mickey sniffs, running a hand over his mouth to collect any sweat that had dripped down. </p><p>“Mickey.” Ray calls out and when he doesn’t get a response he moves around the counter until he’s almost standing toe to toe with the kid that reminds him a lot of himself. </p><p>Ray remembers the day he visited Mickey in prison. It wasn’t pretty and the sounds of cells slamming shut made him feel uneasy about the whole situation. Ray had spent many years coming in and out of prisons to the point that the smell of the place made his throat burn with acid. </p><p><strong>FIVE YEARS EARLIER</strong>  </p><p>
  <em>Ray followed the guard into the room where Mickey was being held. He walked in to see the kid’s ankles and wrists chained to the leg of the table that was now bolted into the cement floor. He could tell that someone had flipped the table to get out of the confines before and that alone made him ill. </em>
</p><p>“<em>Can we get the cuffs off or something?” He asked the guard with the buzzcut who escorted him through the hall. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Nope.” The bigger man pops his gum and looks down at the gun in his holster.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>”You plan on shooting somebody with that?” Ray snarks before stepping around him to get a good look at the young boy. That’s all he was, a boy. Fresh out of high school, if he even finished that. Black hair that looked like it had to have been dyed three shades darker to keep the appearance of strength and sad blue eyes standing tall behind a whelp on his cheek that was purple but looked black. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Only if he tries something.” The guard taps on the bullet proof window for flare. “We’ll be watching. You got five minutes and then the inmate goes back to the SHU.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Secure housing? Why? He’s a kid.” Ray feels himself get angry at the way he talked about the kid as if he wasn’t there. As if all he was was just a number on the back of a uniform. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He’s a felon.” The guard reminds Ray who can only nod and walk further into the room. The door slams behind him, which should’ve made him move but he can’t. He’s stuck in his spot staring at the side of this kid’s face. A face that he feels slightly responsible for. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The only reason he called the cops that night was because he had had a few too many to drink and he felt himself panic at the fact that he couldn’t hold his own. Not in that state. He had barely managed to pull himself off the floor of the stockroom to dial 911. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was a shell and he’d be damned if he’d let one mistake turn this kid into the same thing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You gonna stare any harder or did you just come here to get a good look at the criminal?” Mickey gripes, adjusting himself in his seat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ray feels himself roll his shoulders involuntarily at the tension in the room but he takes a step forward to the table and hears the metal legs scrape against the floor. Mickey tries to pull his hands up from the handcuffs but feels them bite his skin when he’s reminded that he can’t move. He’s trapped like a caged animal but he’s always felt that way so there’s no point in whining now. No one would listen anyway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I came here to talk.” Ray sits down, feeling his foot brush Mickey’s who tries to yank back but just ends up hurting himself in the process. He lets out a wince and finally meets Ray’s eyes who opens his mouth in slight shock. “Sorry.” He apologizes and takes the time to study the boy’s face a little more while he has him looking straight on. </em>
</p><p>“Whatever.” Mickey <em>whispers, cracking his neck at the leaned position the cuffs have him in. </em></p><p>
  <em>Ray notices a fresh cut on Mickey’s lip but what he doesn’t know is that Mickey got that 10 minutes ago when a guard had told him he had a visitor and Mickey asked who. He got smacked for talking back. He got slapped in cuffs and shoved down a few halls until he was thrown in a chair and told to wait. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re bleedin’.” Ray mentions softly but all that does is anger Mickey. He sticks his tongue out and gathers the blood, not even flinching at the literal salt that’s now in his wound. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Did you need something? I mean I’m not sure what I could possibly give you but you gotta be here for something otherwise you’re just as stupid as I thought.” Mickey heckles the older man a little, feeling like a monkey in a zoo, only there to serve people when it’s convenient. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I actually wanted to help you.” Ray admits, feeling like he maybe shouldn’t have come now. That maybe his instincts about the kid were way far off and this kid was too far gone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Help me what?” Mickey laughs and it travels from his chest. “You wanna help me? Get that guard put in a different cellblock.” It’s laced with sarcasm but it’s true. Mickey had endured enough torture from that guard and not even in taking beatings. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beatings he could handle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He messing with you?” Ray squints at the two way mirror behind him to try and make eye contact with the guard but all he gets back is a bang on the glass to shut Mickey up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And it works. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mickey curls back in on himself and feels his ears burn knowing that he would pay for that later in more ways than one. He should have just kept his stupid fucking mouth shut. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s all it takes for Ray to say what he came to say. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll drop the charges.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mickey’s face lights up for a fraction of a second but Ray couldn’t miss it if he tried. He sees it. This kid doesn’t belong in here. He doesn’t need to be here. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mickey manages to return back to steel before asking, “Why would you wanna do that?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ray didn’t know Mickey and he wasn’t about to pretend he knew him, for either one of their sakes. And maybe what Ray was doing was selfish. He was doing it for Mickey but if he was being frank, he was doing it for him too. He saw an opportunity to ease his conscience from the damage he had done, which now seems like a lifetime ago but it wasn’t. Time just worked funny in that way. Time wasn’t real. But this kid sitting in front of him was and maybe he could use time to his advantage to make up for what he’d done, and he could do that with Mickey. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Call it a savior complex.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The fuck is that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ray groans, feeling himself age as he spoke to the kid. He was going to send him to an early grave. But it just so happened that Ray hadn’t planned on living this long anyway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you want out or fucking not?” He asks. “Because I can leave here and you can be on your way serving another dime with Fred Flintstone back there.” He smirks at the mirror knowing the guard heard his comment. He kind of hopes Mickey would really take his offer now because he might pay for that later. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mickey thinks for a second, staring Ray down to make sure he’s not bullshitting him. Mickey wants to leave, believe me, he wants to leave but he doesn’t want to owe anybody a damn thing. Owing people gets you a bullet in your back if you can’t pay up. His family taught him that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What do I have to do?” He knew there were strings but he wanted to make sure they were strings he could manage. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ray takes a moment before he answers because he knows the idea may not be all that appealing, least of all to someone he didn’t know or didn’t trust— someone that didn’t trust him or have any reason to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Work at my record shop for minimum wage. You can stay with me if you want until you get on your feet. I got a spare room. It ain’t much but it’s got a lock on the door and no one will bother you.” Ray proposes, kind of feeling like a creep when he does but when he looks back up at the kid, all he sees is a frown and red rims lining the big blue irises. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Let me get this straight. You came all the way down here to tell me you want me to work at your shop...after I tried to fucking rob it?” Mickey gawks a little at the suggestion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well when you put it like that...” Ray goes to stand up and leave but Mickey yanks at the cuffs again, feeling helpless at the thought of being left alone. His pride is big but if he has a way out, he’ll do it. Even if that means working at some dingy record shop and living with a man he doesn’t know. Maybe in a few days he can get some cash and leave town. That idea is appealing to him so when he finally sighs, he knows it’s because he doesn’t have a choice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Okay.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ray feels better after that one word. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“How are you gonna get the charges dropped?” Mickey asks, realizing that this may not be as easy as Ray’s making it out to be. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know a judge.” He shrugs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Okay, maybe it is that easy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Get your shit together, we’re meeting the judge at the courthouse in an hour. Your lawyer is waiting at the personal item retrieval desk.” Ray nods and turns to the door before he knows twice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The door opens moments later with the burly guard standing, gun drawn by his side and a sour look on his face. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Chin up.” He grins crookedly at the guard before leaving to escort himself back down the hall and out to his car. </em>
</p><p><em>He closes the door and feels himself finally exhale. His car feels a lot bigger than it did before when he plants himself on the nylon seat. But, he can finally breathe again in what feels like years</em>. </p><p>
  <strong>NOW</strong>
</p><p>If Ray was being honest, the kid standing in front of him had unknowingly pulled him out of a pit that he had managed to bury himself in with booze and other shit he’s not proud of. When you lose a lot, you tend to forget that there’s more out there. Ray knew that concept a little too well. And he saw that same way of thinking inside Mickey. He wasn’t well aquatinted with Mickey’s story and he didn’t try to be. He knew Mickey would always be marked by his own family in the sense that they had hurt him— badly. In worse ways than he could imagine. </p><p>Ray had made his own bed though. That’s where he differed. He hurt a lot of people and Mickey had been hurt by a lot of people. They weren’t the same, but they sort of were. </p><p>“Ray?” Mickey clicked his teeth to get the man’s attention which worked as if Ray had been electrocuted. </p><p>Pulled from his own head he finally looked at the kid in front of him and he wanted nothing more than to smile at him, let him know he was still there but he couldn’t. He wasn’t still there and honestly, he didn’t want to be. Mickey had managed to find him at what was probably one of the worst moments in his life and while Ray worked everyday to be better, he wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly preach to Mickey about being better for himself because it was all false propaganda anyway, he figured. </p><p>So he just cleared his throat and moved back around the desk to the coat rack to grab his thinly layered jacket and keys. </p><p>“Ray?” Mickey frowned, watching the man move through the shop wordlessly. </p><p>“You make sure you close up, okay, kid?” Ray nods and feels his skin start to itch and there’s only one way he can scratch it.</p><p>Mickey just nods back, and leans forward on his knees to show Ray he heard him. With that, Ray walks out into the heat of the Chicago air before he starts his walk down the street to the one place he knows he wants to be so fucking badly it hurts. He finds the familiar alleyway within minutes knowing that it used to be a place he could spend hours in and convince himself that the world outside didn’t exist. </p><p>With a few wraps on the steeled door, he shoves his hands in his pockets and waits for it to open. His knuckles feel like they’ve just touched sin itself but he shakes off the feeling and waits, listening to the sirens flood in the background. When the door does slide open, catching itself on the hinges, it reveals a man with blonde hair and eyes so dark they almost look black. The man leans against the frame, smug as ever, when he notices Ray standing there, seeming rattled and in need of something hard to knock him on his ass. </p><p>“Welcome home, honey.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i ended up workshopping the title a little bit. a lot of you know it as “the rise and fall of mickey milkovich” but i feel like this one is more fitting as i’m not hoping for his story to end in a downfall. hope you like it. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mickey hits rock bottom.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mentions of self inflicted harm and alcoholism.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>A week later...</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>(5 weeks post Ian Gallagher)</strong>
</p><p>If Mickey has a raging hangover today, he can’t tell from the numbing pain in his other limbs. In a good way, it distracts him from the clusterfuck that’s going on inside his own head. </p><p>The couch is warm and soft under him. He almost feels like he’s sinking right down to the floor and the only thing that’s reminding him he’s not is the coffee table he has his feet propped up on. Molly comes walking in from the kitchen with ice wrapped inside of a used old rag that was probably the cat’s chew toy before it was pressed to his face to numb any swelling he had. </p><p>“Can’t believe you picked a fucking fight.” Molly gripes, pressing extra hard on the forming bruise just to piss him off. </p><p>Mickey hisses before slapping her hands away and taking the rag from her. “It wasn’t even a fight.” He snorts, remembering how he just laid on the ground and took it, practically egging the guy on and begging for more. </p><p>“How did one guy do this much damage?” Molly asks, looking at her brother in a sad way that reminded him of Mandy when she’d try to comfort him after he’d had his ass handed to him on a silver platter. When Mandy did it, it would piss him off. He’d shove her away and tell her to beat it because he didn’t like that she would stand in the back while his father pummeled him and try to feel sorry about it later. </p><p>Mandy was selfish like that, never stopping a fight but a bigger part of him would’ve wanted her to stay as far away anyway. He didn’t need Mandy getting killed over his smart mouth. </p><p>“He was big.” Mickey said simply. In truth, he wasn’t actually all that big but Mickey didn’t put up a fight so he ended up looking like raw meat that had been put through a grinder too many times. </p><p>“Your bruises from last time aren’t even fully healed yet.” She sighs heavily, moving to sit on top of a pillow. </p><p>This had easily become Mickey’s new routine. He would leave work, find a bar, sometimes it would be the Alibi and he would run into some of Ian’s friends but more often than not, it was just a different bar every night. He figured he couldn’t sit around like a little bitch and cry so he would find a bar, knock back a lot of beer, and pick a fight with some random guy. There was no criteria. He would practically close his eyes and point to someone before he stalked up opened his big mouth to them. He didn’t need a good reason or any reason. </p><p>He spent the last good years of his life trying to be better. Trying to avoid violence and be a better person but who was he trying to be better for? Himself? That didn’t count for shit and he could live with the fact that he was a piece of shit. </p><p>He didn’t have anyone to be good for. He didn’t want to be good for anyone, really. </p><p>He could finally be the Southside trash he was raised to be. Ian made him realize that. More like losing Ian made him realize that. And there was no one who could stop him from doing it. He knew it worried Molly like when he broke his ribs a few days ago and couldn’t even go to the bathroom without some form of help. And Molly even went as far as to tell Ray, thinking it would help but Ray hadn’t been showing up to work lately so she left him a note hoping he’d get it. Nothing so far but there wasn’t much else she could do. Mickey had made up his mind and it would take more than what she could do to make him better again. </p><p>“Debbie talked to Ian. He’s doing good in California.” Molly tries, thinking it’s a long shot anyway and she’d be right. </p><p>Mickey blows air out of his closed lips and ticks his head to the side in false curiosity. “Is he?” </p><p>She nods, knowing he’s being sarcastic anyway. “Said he found a good job.” </p><p>And Mickey’s stomach sinks like a rock. He closes his eyes and finds himself starting to shake but that could just be the aching in his muscles. <em>Ian found a job. </em></p><p>That meant that this whole California thing was long term and he’s not coming back. Not that Mickey ever thought he would or should because let’s be honest, Southside isn’t much to write home about. It’s pure filth and Mickey was made for it. Ian on the other hand wasn’t which he should be grateful for. He should be grateful that for even a fraction of a second, Ian had found some light in Mickey that made him appear better than the product of his environment. But that moment was gone and so was Ian.</p><p>The thought that Ian was now gone forever caused vomit and bile to rise in his throat and before he realized what was happening, Mickey was hunched over and puking all over the front of his pants and onto the floor. </p><p>“Mickey, gross!” Molly shies away monetarily as he empties his stomach and when he’s done, wiping his chin, she hops up and grabs a towel from the stacked makeshift pallet the cat sleeps on and lays it down before the cat has a chance to try and lick it up. </p><p>Molly shoos the cat away and runs a hand through her hair in disgust.</p><p>“Fuck, I’m gonna be sick again.” Mickey groans, laying back with his head propped up on the back of the couch. </p><p>“Please give me a brief intermission to find another towel.” Molly pleas, looking green in the face from having to be so close to someone else’s sick. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t even have to energy to feel embarrassed about puking everywhere because the pain in his heart is back and he feels like he needs a drink right now. He goes to stand but his fractured ribs snatch at something inside of his body and he hurls himself back down before he has the chance to empty his stomach again. He doesn’t know how he has anything left inside of him. He hasn’t touched a meal in about 5 days and his blood is practically rubbing alcohol now. </p><p>“You probably just broke another rib.” Molly sighs, feeling more like a caretaker than a sister right now. And Mickey knows she’s exhausted with him and his never-ending pool of bullshit but he can’t seem to care if she’s unhappy because he’s unhappy too and if he can live with it, so can she— he figures. Not the best way of thinking on his part but he’s tries his best to not think lately, it only ends up sucking for him in the end anyway. </p><p>“Can you get me some Advil or something?” He asks, annoyed that he can’t move to get a beer from the fridge. </p><p>“You need a doctor, Mickey. Advil is like putting a bandaid over a bullet hole.” Molly says, already walking into the kitchen to get the bottle of Advil. </p><p>Mickey chuckles cynically as she returns with the bottle in hand, cap already twisted off. </p><p>“What’s funny?” </p><p>“Oh, nothing it’s just I’ve actually had to put a bandaid on a bullet hole and it works better than you’d think.” He shrugs, wincing when he feels every bone in his body jostle with the momentum. </p><p>Molly doesn’t comment on it because she knows her brother has been shot, more than once and it makes her feel guilty that she wasn’t there. She was sheltered with her mother for most of her life, never exposed to Terry and the other Milkoviches. </p><p>“Can you get me a beer?” He asks, pouring 4 pills into his hand at once. </p><p>“I can get you water.” She walks away to the fridge. </p><p>“Molly, fucking hell—“ He’s cut off when she slams the fridge and throws a water bottle at the side of his head in anger. He almost falls sideways on the couch but holds himself up as heat races through his body in anger. “Are you kidding me right now?” </p><p>“What’s wrong with you?” She stomps towards him and knocks his feet off the coffee table, annoyed at his relaxed position when she feels so small and angry. </p><p>“You want a goddamn list or something? You writing a book?” He snarks, rubbing the side of his head before picking up the water bottle from the couch cushion beside him. He presses it to his forehead to cool down the hot air inside of his head. </p><p>“Yeah, it’s called the Miserable Life of Mickey Milkovich.” She glares at her brother, waiting for the smart comment to come and it does.</p><p>“Need to workshop that title.”</p><p>And that’s all it takes for her to walk away, slamming the door to her room before Mickey is left alone with his least favorite person in the world; <em>himself</em>. </p><p>He needs a goddamn drink. Now. </p><p>It doesn’t take long for him to get sick of his own brain running on fumes before he packs it all up in a box and shoves it to the farthest corner of his head. He finds it in himself to stand after minutes of struggling and falling back down like a lump. When he makes it to his feet, he finds the cat staring at him from the kitchen counter and stumbles right by it without a second glance. </p><p>He has himself leaning on the door for a second to breathe before his balance is knocked out when he opens it and wonders out into the hallway. It’s quiet out here without actually being so quiet that he can hear himself think. That’s the last thing he wants. Allowing himself a moment alone, he walks further down the hall until he sees the stairs and it almost makes him regret getting up again. </p><p>The dizziness starts to take him out quicker than he thought and before he can even process the blurry shapes, he’s falling forward, taking all of his weight and busted pride with him. </p><p>The ache in his muscles is too for him as he groans, feeling his bones splinter on the impact and at this point, he’s lost count of the bruises forming on his body so what’s a couple more? After what feels like five seconds and five years all at once, he finally feels himself stop moving. He couldn’t have fallen that far down because he was still breathing and even though he felt like blowing chunks, nothing had come out of him yet. </p><p>A surge of adrenaline hit him at the idea that he could easily get up and walk it off. He could do it, he was used to being the world’s punching bag. </p><p>He felt fucking <em>invincible</em>. </p><p>His hands slap the floor and it’s a wet sound at first until he realizes why it’s wet. His hands are soaked in blood from the scrapes and cuts he got during the fall and probably somewhere else too. Those looked like Tuesday’s cuts actually, just reopened. Fresh wounds that didn’t actually hurt anymore. </p><p><em>Invincible</em>. </p><p>Nothing could touch him at this point. He had already suffered enough for a lifetime and if he didn’t give the pain power then he would be fine. If he didn’t think about it, if he didn’t hand over himself to the pain like he used to, if he just fucking stopped letting his instincts take over, he could drive his body into manual and take control for fucking once. He could make it out of this alive...or not. Whichever. </p><p>The second option sounded more appealing as he peered up at the top step where he had let his body free fall about fifteen to twenty feet. </p><p>He took the rest of the steps one by one, ignoring the pain, somehow convincing himself that if he ignored it, he could probably get used to it enough to where it didn’t hurt him anymore. </p><p><em>Invincible</em>. </p><p>He literally had to drag his two legs down the steps and through the lobby, passing the new night manager, Keith. Keith was okay, he didn’t really look at Mickey like he was pitiful and to be fair, he didn’t really look at Mickey at all. Everyone was invisible to Keith. Mickey kind of envied that sort of obliviousness. He wished he had gone back all those months ago and looked right through Ian Gallagher like he was a target instead of like he hung the fucking moon because let’s be honest, where did that get him? </p><p>Walking through his own lobby mid-afternoon on his way to find an open bar looking like he’d just been dragged 18 miles by a bus. </p><p>Shoving the thought of the goddamn Gallagher out of his head, again, he pushed the door open and started walking in the direction of noise. Where there was noise, there was booze, he’d come to learn. </p><p>He’s not sure how long he walked for, just that he had smelt the alcohol before he saw it and that led him to walking inside of a crowded bar. Empty peanut shells and pieces of ripped toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoes as he found an empty stool at the bar and sat for a second. His breathing was shallow and raspy and he probably punctured a lung with a broken rib if he was being honest with himself. </p><p>Alcohol would fix that, he guessed. </p><p>He tapped the bar with his hand, watching his blood streak on the mahogany wood. A looming figure stopped in front of him and he watched the man clean the inside of a class with a rag as he waited for Mickey to speak. </p><p>“Whiskey, no ice.” He groaned, holding a hand to his stomach as he felt something jar inside of him. He was definitely dying or something. </p><p>“What about an ambulance?” The voice rasped and Mickey wasn’t in the mood for anything other than something to wet his whistle. </p><p>“Whiskey.” He growled, not bothering to look up as the guy walked away finally. He saw the guy slide a glass down the bar at him and it stopped just shy of his fingertips before he grabbed at it and downed it, tapping the glass again to signal for one more. </p><p>He was awarded with another drink and a napkin with “shout if you need 911” written across it in sharpie. He snorted at the asshole before downing the second drink in seconds. It didn’t take long for the alcohol to halt any emotions he felt minutes before. That was the power of a good drink. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to stop drinking if this was the result. Emptiness. </p><p>Having emotions and feeling full of shit was a painful way to live, even more painful way to die. Mickey wanted to live and die empty. </p><p>That much he knew. </p><p>“You don’t look so good.” The guy was standing over him again and this time Mickey finally looked up to meet Kevin Ball. It shocked him a little so he looked up further to see a sign that said “The Alibi Room” sticking up over the mirror behind the bar. </p><p>He was the biggest idiot in the world. </p><p>“Mickey Milkovich?” Kev pinched his forehead together as he took in Mickey’s appearance and worry crossed his face before he waved over someone. A second later, with Mickey frozen, Veronica came over and flinched when she saw Mickey, half dead, sitting at her bar. </p><p>“Uh uh, you ain’t dying in my bar.” She groaned, picking up the phone that stayed connected behind the bar. Despite his confusion about the statement, Mickey tugged on the roots of his hair to remind himself that he was still alive. </p><p>“Your bar?” Kev hummed, widening his eyes a little. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Mickey asked her, already having an idea of what she was doing. </p><p>“Calling an ambulance.” She smacked his hand away when he reached out to grab it from her and grazed his elbow in the process. “Touch me again, try it.” She glared at him but her expression softened when he groaned in pain. </p><p>“Vee, he’s already hurt. Quit hitting him.” Kev complained, leaning over the bar and grabbing Mickey by his shoulder when he almost fell backwards. </p><p>Maybe he wasn’t invincible. </p><p>“No ambulance.” Mickey pleaded with her because to be honest, he couldn’t afford one and he didn’t like hospitals all that fucking much. They smelled weird and people hovered over you like you were an invalid. </p><p>“I gotta call someone because you can’t leave on your own and I’m not taking care of a man child when I have other shit to do.” Veronica sighed. “Pick someone.” She crossed her arms and waited as Mickey felt his eye lids get heavier and honestly, his body was operating on a steep plane right now, slowly slipping. He was no longer in control of what happened to him. </p><p>His head smacked the bar and he felt his body start to fall again, much like the stairs except this time he didn’t feel the impact and he hoped that this time, it would take him out. </p><p>
  <em>Hospitals were never kind to Mickey due to the fact that they all knew the reason why he was there and he hated it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He had been beat within an inch of his life at least once a month and that was just if he had gotten so critical he had to go before he died. And don’t get him wrong, he wanted to die but going was never his choice because eventually he would pass out from the pain and he’d wake up to people in white coats and machines hovering over him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A kid comes in with blood in the lungs and a severe concussion, what do you think happened? Especially when that kid is the son of Terry Milkovich. The nurses at Southside General were all too familiar with Mickey. But they never called a social worker because they knew if they did, they’d have to face Terry. So, Mickey got patched up and sent home every time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>So when the doctors lean over him as he squeezes his eyes shut in pain at 23 years old, “Do you have anyone you’d like us to call?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He says no. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because he knew what that meant for him. He knew that if he said yes, they’d look on file and call his dad or they’d call his house and Molly would answer and she would get worried and stress and now that the alcohol had worn off, he felt bad about yelling at her earlier. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His entire body felt like a cinder block as he propped himself up in the small bed. White sheets were pulled up to his waist which was covered in a stupid ass blue hospital gown. </em>
</p><p><em>He felt sick as tape tugged at some sore skin when he went to wipe his face. </em> <em>Looking down at his arm, he ripped the IV out, watching a few drops of blood hit the sterile blanket in his lap. </em></p><p>
  <em>He could see his clothes sitting inside of a plastic bag by the sink so he hauled himself up, ignoring his dead legs and he gripped the railings of the bed to balance his body up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That feeling of being alone in the hospital room— alone and confused— thats all he remembers about that week and that fucking terrifies him. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ian and Lip realize that home will never be too far.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mentions of drug addiction and suicide.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Two months post Mickey Milkovich </strong>
</p><p>Things seemed to slow down a little bit for Ian the more comfortable he got in California. When he first got there it was as if the weeks had sped by and he felt like he was burning precious time that he didn’t have. He wasn’t entirely sure what he thought California was going to be. Was it just supposed to be like a vacation? Taking some time off? Or was it supposed to be more for him. He knew he needed time— time to heal.</p><p>After Charlie, he kind of felt time stop altogether. It didn’t move forwards at all and he felt stuck in his own body for a lot of that period. He didn’t look forward to much except waking up and going to Charlie’s grave which wasn’t the same. If anything it made matters worse when he talked to the headstone and the headstone never talked back. The dead can’t talk and he spent so much time waiting for a ghost. </p><p>That’s what Charlie was to him now. A ghost of his past that held so much hope. Ian looked to Charlie for a lot of things. Reassurance of a fulfilled future being one of them. </p><p>When he lost that hope, he didn’t think he’d ever get that feeling back until he met Mickey. Mickey probably wanted nothing to do with him now that he’d ran away across the country with his tail stuck between his legs. He couldn’t admit it at first that he had ran away but after a few more talks with Lip, it became clear that everyone was running from something— his something just happened to have blue eyes and the filthiest mouth he had ever heard. </p><p>Ian had searched low and high for things to pass his time in California and honestly, he hadn’t expected to like it so much. He thought he’d be miserable and running home in under a month but after two months, he felt like he was doing a lot better. He had found a purpose again, one that rewarded him. </p><p>He had found a job working with at risk kids who were battling addiction. The center was nice and the people were very open to volunteers. After a week in that place, they had offered Ian a job working with their teens. They weren’t troubled as most people called them. They were actually more like him than he thought they would be. Ian sort of wished he had something like this back when he was a teen. He had his fair share of addiction when it came to pills. No one understood it and didn’t even try to which is how he ended up so lost for a long time. School didn’t do much for him and after he dropped out, Fiona gave him so much hell that he couldn’t help but turn to pills to ease the worry. </p><p>“Ian!” Manny runs up to the bigger man, giving him a high five before Ian even makes it through the front door. </p><p>Manny was 16 years old and working through a lot of latent anger issues considering he had been sober off of heroine for nearly 4 months and didn’t have a lot of good energy to put out into the world. But for some reason, Ian loved the kid despite his outbursts. He reminded him of Carl in the sense that he had a lot of dreams but pretended that having dreams was stupid, useless, worthless. </p><p>Manny wanted to be a firefighter though. Ian told him that it was attainable. Then they went from there after that. </p><p>“Didn’t you have group today?” Ian entertains the kid as he signs his name in at the door and shows the lady at the desk his badge. </p><p>“It’s boring.” Manny huffs, falling into step with Ian as they walk through the rec room and into the small break room. The break room had two tables in the center of it and a vending machine with expired snacks inside. </p><p>Ian put a dollar in and gestured for Manny to pick something and of course he went with oatmeal cookies because he knew Ian hated them and wouldn’t be snagging them off of him as he ate. With a roll of his eyes, Ian pressed B7 and watched the cookies fall before Manny shoved his hand in the slot and grinned when he got them. </p><p>“You didn’t want to share in group?” Ian pulls out a chair and Manny follows to sit across from him, answering him with a full mouth. </p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>”Manny...” The kid levels him with a glare causing Ian to sigh. “If you don’t share, you won’t improve.”</p><p>”The fuck do I need to improve for?” </p><p>“Language.” </p><p>“You swear all the time, man!” Manny accuses him, spare crumbs falling on the table in front of them. </p><p>“And it’s a bad habit.” Ian shakes his head, realizing he’s getting side tracked. “Have you at least tried to share? Maybe you’ll make friends faster.” </p><p>“I don’t need friends, I got you.” Manny shrugs, sitting the cookies down, deciding he was done eating. </p><p>“Friends your own age, Manny. I’m getting old here, I may not be around for much longer.” Ian jokes but Manny doesn’t laugh at that. He knew Manny had abandonment issues, like most addicts because the one thing they learned quickly is that they pushed people away. </p><p>“The other kids smile too much like they’re trying to pretend shit didn’t happen.” Ian raises his eyebrows and Manny mumbles a swift sorry. “I don’t want to pretend that my <em>stuff</em> didn’t happen.” </p><p>“Then don’t pretend it didn’t happen. Just be honest.” Ian levels with him because he knows what it’s like to feel like you’re living a lie. It can swallow you whole. </p><p>Manny nods, picking his cookies back up and finishing them off when he sees Cole walk in with his clipboard hanging down by his side. </p><p>“Don’t you have somewhere to be Manny?” Cole pressed kindly, offering Manny a short smile before Manny groans and hauls himself out of his chair, giving Ian a fist bump on his way out back to his group session. </p><p>Cole takes Manny’s seat, popping the top button near his collar open and letting his feet settle in the empty chair between he and Ian. </p><p>“He hates group.” Ian says plainly, sort of annoyed for Cole making him go even though Ian just tried to do the same thing.</p><p>Cole was the head counselor at the center. He knew how to handle the kids in a way that Ian wished he could master. He was just too nice, he thought. He felt weird forcing the kids to do their homework or go to group. He didn’t think he needed that much authority. He just wanted to help.</p><p>But as Cole reminded him, “The kids need authority. They need someone to tell them what to do because most of them didn’t have that growing up.” </p><p>And Ian understood it. It didn’t mean he had to like it. </p><p>“How’s your first official week going?” Cole asks, patting at his knees idly. </p><p>Running a hand through his shorter hair— he had cut it a few days ago because it was growing out and starting to look like a mullet— Ian sighs. He blows a raspberry through his lips and huffs. “It’s fine. No one has tried to choke me out yet.” </p><p>Ian remembers his first day at the center. One of the kids had the youth counselor against the wall choking him and that same counselor quit which left an opening for him to take. </p><p>Cole nods happily. “Baby steps.” </p><p>“Did Kwan ever find out if his parents were coming for Family Day?” Ian wonders, thinking about how Family Day was coming up for the center. Most of the kids were living on site in the dorms so that their families didn’t interfere with their sobriety. Families were hard and Ian could relate. </p><p>“His dad said they would try to make it but the flights weren’t cooperating with their work schedules so it’s looking like a no.” Cole sucks cold air through his teeth.</p><p>”Let’s hope Kwan doesn’t flip out.” Ian wasn’t close with Kwan but he knew the teen had issues with violence so he worried a little. He worried about all of the kids in one way or another.</p><p>Ian stands up from the table, giving Cole a pat on the shoulder before he walks down the hall to his office where he’ll spend the majority of his day catching up on paper work and finding new homes for some of the kids who were aging out of the center’s program.</p><p>His desk was a cluttered mess much like his brain but as he sat down, he managed to sort through it all before finding the list of kids who needed new placements. He saw one strikingly familiar name that made the hair on the back of his neck stick up.</p><p>Manuel Carbrerra. </p><p>“Fuck.” Ian heard himself choke a little at the idea of Manny being reassigned somewhere new. He felt protective over the smaller kid and Manny had already had enough change in his small lifetime. He needed stability. </p><p>“Cole?” Ian shouted, waiting for the footsteps of his coworker before he saw the lanky blonde standing in his doorframe. </p><p>“Yup.” </p><p>“Why is Manny being transferred?” He asks, feeling like this had to be a mistake. Manny hadn’t made much progress but Ian knew that he could do it if he just had more time. </p><p>“Loretta needs to make space for more kids and Manny is almost 17 so they’re placing him in a group home in the fall I think.” Cole purses his lips in thought.</p><p>Ian was never really fond of how Loretta ran the center. She was a corporate bootlicker from what he could tell and she had a history of avoiding the ground floor. Her shiny office and paper checks were all she saw through the day to day work. He felt that she was heartless in the sense that she never spent any time with the kids so they were all just names in a file to her.</p><p>“Why the fuck is he being moved? Does he know?” Ian’s voice raises in anger. </p><p>“Nope.” Cole shakes his head. “But Manny has been with us for two years now and hasn’t progressed at all so they’re moving him to St. Andrews. He’ll get the same counseling and medical care, just a different bed.” </p><p>“That’s kind of the fucked up part. He needs a stable home, Cole.” Ian argues. </p><p>“Don’t shoot the messenger, man.” Cole raises his hands in surrender before turning back down the hallway and disappearing. </p><p>Ian slams his hands down on a pile of papers, watching them float and scatter to the floor before he leans down to pick them up. He lands on Manny’s file which is just a novel full of arrest reports, documents from the social security office, and a headshot of Manny not that long ago looking beaten by the world. </p><p>Ian feels his heart sink as he walks out of work that day, knowing he can’t do anything to save any of these kids, no matter how hard he fucking tries. He can’t even help himself. </p><p>It didn’t help that Lip wasn’t doing better or even trying to do better. He had been sent home more times in the past month then he knew to keep up with. But, Lip seemed unperturbed about the whole thing. He’d make a smart comment about how he had the highest test scores in his law class and how no one had even come close to touching his results on the bar exam. He was full of himself and it didn’t take long for that to catch up with him.</p><p>“They’re fucking suing me.” He boomed, slamming the front door of the apartment so hard that the hinges rocked.</p><p>Ian sat up on the couch and placed Manny’s file on the side table in shock. He had taken it home to look over, hoping he could find a loophole for the kid but so far nothing and now Lip was home, frustrated about something. “Who?”   </p><p>“The corporate bastards.” Lip fumes, standing by the door with a crinkled sheet of paper in his hands. The tie he had left wearing this morning is undone and wrapped around his shoulders. His hair is disheveled and his worn jacket is in his arms but not for long because he launches it across the room where it hits a lamp and knocks it over, startling Ian a little bit. </p><p>“What happened?” Ian stands from the couch taking a tentative step towards Lip. </p><p>“What always happens, I fucked up.” He bites his bottom lip to stop the emotions from pouring out and when he finds that he can’t, he walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge and grabs the bottle of vodka that’s almost gone to begin with. It won’t be enough. </p><p>He stalks over to the couch and sinks into it as he twists the cap off and chugs. He chugs to catch his breath but that drowning feeling he’s had his whole life will never go away. That doesn’t stop him from drinking more and more. </p><p>“I fucked up, Ian.” Lip sighs heavily, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand nervously. He knew his brother had always looked up to him, like a superhero almost even though Lip had always been far from it. He had his own fair share of issues and he had made about ten mistakes every morning before he managed to brush his teeth— if he managed to even do that. </p><p>“Did they find out about the drinking?” Ian mumbles, knowing that this would always be Lip’s downfall. He was cocky, arrogant, never taking warnings seriously. He merely saw them as suggestions. </p><p>Lip snorts sickly. “Yeah, and that’s why I’m now being sued for $150,000.” </p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>”Public image issues and internal damages, they said.” Lip scoffs at the reality that everything is now so fucked beyond his control. </p><p>He had his fucking dream right in the center of his hand. It was right-fucking-there. He loved it, he touched it, it was tangible. He had it. He worked hard for it, considering he hadn’t worked hard a day in his life. Most of his grades were handed to him in Southside because they were used to bare minimum bullshit. And he fucked it all up. He knew showing up to court drunk again was a mistake the second he slurred a few words. Then the judge was asking the bailiff to bring in a breathalyzer. He blew right into it and saw his entire career flash before his eyes right before the results showed a .12. </p><p>Point...fucking....12. </p><p>“I have to appear in court in three days to see if I can get the amount reduced but after that, I’m fucked. I’ll never practice law again, anywhere.” He can feel his face getting hot under Ian’s stare so he looks away again.</p><p>”Fuck, Lip.” Ian groans, holding his head in his hands before letting his limbs drop to his sides. “What the fuck were you thinking?” </p><p>And it’s a decent enough question. What the fuck was Lip thinking? He was set for life with this job and now he has nothing again. He can’t go back to working minimum wage jobs or building cars again. He hadn’t seen grime on his hands in years. He wouldn’t know what to do in a lower class job. </p><p>He had been accustomed to working in an office with other big wigs who called him “Phillip” and shook his hand at the end of a long day. People respected him and not only had he lost his job, but he lost their respect. Something that wasn’t easy to earn and could never be given back. </p><p>What was he thinking?</p><p>”I guess...” Lip scratches his eyebrow as he thought. “I guess I thought that ruining something good like this was bound to happen one way or another.” </p><p>“If you had just gotten sober, Lip-“ </p><p>“And what, Ian? Then what?” Lip shouts, standing up on his feet to stand square to square with his brother. “Then what?” He seethed. </p><p>“Then you wouldn’t be getting sued right now!” Ian groans. “I mean do you even have $150,000 to shell out? Because I don’t!” </p><p>Lip shrinks down for a second. “I have some of it.” He admits, though that savings was supposed to last him his entire life as he managed to put more and more into it. He was going to use that for his kid’s college if he ever had any. God knows Lip always wanted to have kids. He couldn’t imagine having them now— subjecting them to the way he was. He wasn’t fit to care for anyone, much less himself. </p><p>“How much is some?” </p><p>“Some.” </p><p>It’s hard to picture Ian being more disappointed in Lip than he is in this moment. Lip can see it all over his face and it’s making his insides turn over. </p><p>“Why did you let this happen?” Ian asks the same question in a different format and Lip honestly doesn’t want to think about why he let it get this bad. He had chance after chance to fix things and he had so many opportunities to stop the self destructive behavior but he couldn’t. He couldn’t fucking do it. </p><p>He needed the alcohol. </p><p>“Because if I had stopped, for even a second, you would be walking into this living room one day to see that I put a fucking bullet in my mouth.” Lip whispers and it almost doesn’t travel far enough for Ian to hear but he does. And he wishes he hadn’t. </p><p>“Lip...” Ian mumbles, taking a step forward but Lip puts his hand out to stop him. </p><p>“Start packing. After the trail, we’re going back to Southside so I can figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do.” </p><p>Lip walks into his bedroom, quietly shutting the door and leaving Ian with lead feet, stuck to the floor as he thinks about Southside again for the first time in a while— and all he left behind but he couldn’t help but he reminded of all he’s leaving behind too.</p><p> </p>
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